


A Stitch In Time

by FindingFeathersSeanchaidh



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, All comments replied to., Anything else would give away a twist or two, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Adult Themes, Romance, Settle in for the long haul: this is going to be huge., Slow Burn, Time Travel, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 80
Words: 266,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8187781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FindingFeathersSeanchaidh/pseuds/FindingFeathersSeanchaidh
Summary: Once upon a time, Leonard Snart blew up the Oculus.As Sara struggles to come to terms with the death of her sister and Leonard, the crew of the Waverider rally round to support her. Nevertheless, her behaviour unsettles them. While they worry about Sara, however, there is another crew member they don't even realise needs their help.Yet.





	1. A Time To Pause

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a simply sci-fi/fantasy adventure story, but my colleagues challenged me to step out of my comfort zone and write a romance. Now it's both.
> 
> Due to the nature of the tale, and the immovable presence of my day job, chapters may be posted sporadically. This usually means I want to get one side of the story right before I put it together with the other. Please bear with me. It is a long story, with most of the latter third written, the first third posted and the middle planned out and in progress. Any similarities to the second season of the show are entirely coincidental (happens a lot with my writing) and the entire plan has been in place since before any trailers came out.
> 
> I am terrible for writing in deliberate (and occasionally accidental) Easter eggs. If and when you spot them, do feel free to say something in the comments!
> 
> Disclaimer: The only thing I own here is the idea for the story below. Everything else - show, characters, storyverse et cetera - are the property of whoever. Not me.

Sara looked down at the cards in her hands. She had been shuffling them for how long? Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

More?

She was numb. Devoid of any and all emotion. Empty. She should feel something?

Shouldn't she?

The light from her doorway changed and she looked up, suddenly defensive. Mick stood there, blocking the brighter light of the corridor with his bulky frame.

"Food's ready, Blondie," rumbled Mick's bass tones. "Can't sit here all day."

"I'm good," she answered, turning her head back to the cards. Mechanically her hands began shuffling them again.

"You need to eat," Mick persisted.

"I'll eat at dinner," she shook her head without looking up.

"This is dinner, Sara," pointed out the ship's resident pyromaniac. "You've been here all day."

"What?" Sara looked up with a frown. It hadn't been that long, had it?

"Everyone's worried about you."

"I'm fine."

"Then you're doing better than the rest of us."

"Mick..."

"He wouldn't want this, Sara," growled Mick, a dash of menace colouring his warmer words. "I never met your sister, but I'll go out on a limb here and say neither would she."

"Mick..."

"My best friend died so you could live," he cut in again, blunt as a butter knife, and her hands stopped moving. "Not so that you could sit here and starve yourself to death."

"League members can go days without eating," she muttered, her head still down, staring at her motionless hands.

"Doesn't mean they should," he retorted.

"I'll eat when I'm hungry," she growled.

"Not the first time I've heard that," Mick barked back.

"Mick, leave," she warned.

He knew better than to ignore her when she used that tone of voice, but he refused to leave defeated. "It's pasta. I'll bring you a bowlful."

The light from the doorway returned to normal and Sara relaxed. He would be back. He had said he would bring food, and she knew he'd be as good as his word there. Then she would have to go through the whole conversation again. It would be Mick that brought it. None of the others would dare go near her when she was like this. She saw it in their faces on every mission. Even those that had known her before. Especially them.

"Gideon, close the door please," she sighed, sliding down on her bed to lie staring at the ceiling. "Lock it and don't let anyone in without my permission."

"Shall I soundproof the door too, Miss Lance?" Gideon replied promptly, the door sliding shut as she spoke.

"Please."

Time passed. It had a tendency to do that.

"Sara," Rip called softly from the far side of the door. He waited. No answer came. "Sara? Sara! SARA!"

"The doorway and chamber beyond have been soundproofed, Captain Hunter," Gideon politely informed him.

"Little late, aren't we, Gideon," retorted the ex-Time Master dryly. "You could have warned me before I started yelling."

"I fear you would not have heard me, Captain," replied the smiling voice, just a little too cheerfully for Rip's liking.

"I bet you do," growled the sullen man. "Just tell her we'll be jumping soon and she has a quarter of an hour to do something with the bowl of pasta Mister Rory brought her or she'll be cleaning every inch of this corridor to remove what remains of it."

"I shall pass the message on to Miss Lance. Thank you, Captain."

"Oh, and Gideon?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Stop taking sides."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I bet you don't."

XXXX

A small crowd of faces turned to Rip on his return to the bridge. He held up his hands without missing a step and headed for his office. He half expected to see Mick and Ray behind him when he turned, but he had the presence of mind to hide that half of him hadn't. And that their sudden appearance had nearly made that half of him jump three feet in the air. When had Ray Palmer learned to walk quietly? He had definitely been spending too much time around Mick!

"May I help you, gentlemen?" Rip enquired with a tight grimace. He turned to his central desk and pulled a star chart towards him.

"Did she eat the food?" Mick growled. "She needs to eat."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that, Mister Rory," Rip muttered. "Unfortunately it seems Miss Lance does not agree with us, and that she has asked Gideon to, as it were, block our calls. We can shout as much as we like, she won't hear us. I asked Gideon to pass on the necessary information, however, and I remain hopeful that we shall still be able to walk down that corridor after the time jump without danger of death by pasta pomodoro."

"The inanimate objects in here are never affected by a time jump," frowned Ray. "Why should the pasta?"

"That's like saying the gloves in your glove box aren't affected when your car goes over thirty miles an hour," pointed out Rip. "They are, they're just held in place by something around them. In that case the glove box, in this case the stasis fields set up around them. When random changes to the timeline aren't moving them around of course."

"So if it's still there and we time jump...?" Ray looked at Rip. Rip gave him a withering glare in return.

"Big mess," Mick translated.

"Maybe I should go round there just before we jump," suggested Raymond. "Clear things away."

"Don't you dare," warned Rip. "Gideon will only let her know and give her another excuse not to eat, won't you Gideon?"

"The idea had not even begun to speculate," returned the computer, "about the possibility of crossing my mind."

Ray's eyebrows contracted. "Hey! Stop reading my e-books!"

Under the weary glare of Rip's eyes, the two retreated disgracefully.

Ray leant over to Mick once they were out of earshot. "Who keeps gloves in their car glove box?"

Mick looked back with a slight frown. "You don't?"

XXXX

Light flooded Leonard's vision. Bright, white, searing light that grew and burned and intensified. Then darkness.

Time passed.

The scent of greenery nudged Leonard's consciousness awake. Something else was nudging his arm. Velvet black darkness filled his vision. He wondered if it was night. He wondered if he were in some odd building or ship large enough to house a forest. That was where he felt he was. He was sure of that. The outdoors had never been his thing, but if it smelt like a forest and it sounded like a forest, well...

The sounds that were filtering back into his hearing grew louder. Were they nearer or was it just his hearing getting better? He felt the muscles contract between his brows, pulling them down into a quizzical frown. Something was off. He raised a hand to his face. Nothing happened. He felt the frown deepen, surprise and worry adding to the growing congregation of confusion and disquiet. Once again, he focussed on moving his hand to his face. He felt the limb twitch, but no more. An indignant grumble sounded near his elbow. He felt his eyelids twitch at the odd noise. His eyelids. He ignored his arm and focussed on his eyes. It was dark. He couldn't see. But had he tried? The more he thought about it, the more certain he became: his eyes were still closed. He zeroed in on that thought. He held on to it like a lifeline. He had been knocked out before. Physically and chemically. He had been hungover before, though not often. He remembered this. He remembered slowly coming round from the general anaesthetic one time. He had heard everything going on in the ward far before he had been able to open his eyes and watch. He couldn't remember it affecting the rest of his body, but it had been a long time ago and there had been substantially less of it to be affected. And it had been in a hospital bed with a surgeon, an anaesthetist and several nurses looking after it. He had... He had what?

He remembered the light. That was written into his memory with indelible ink. He couldn't... He didn't... Why? There had been light. Why? Something. Some reason. There had been light for a reason. But no, more: he had chosen the light. He had chosen it for a reason. Why? To save. Save what? Save who? Lisa? No, she hadn't been there. Mick? Mick had definitely been there. Everyone?

"Sara."

A trickle of memory became a flood. He swallowed, aware that the rasping voice he had heard utter a scant two syllables had been his own. Images surrounded his semiconscious brain. A dance. A bar fight. A game of cards. An icy room with frost forming on their faces. A choice. And another choice. And a kiss.

"Sara," he breathed, his voice less ragged.

He should be dead. That was it. That was the choice he had made. He had chosen to die for her. And for Mick. For all of them. He should be dead. Was this death? She had said it had been lonely for her. Was he lonely? He was alone. Did that count?

The low, inhuman grumbling sounded again. It had moved to his shoulder now, and something was tugging at his jacket. He began to wonder if trying to open his eyes was a good idea. Whatever he saw, it wouldn't be familiar. It wouldn't be her.

Where was he? He had ruled out the ship, a hospital or anything with a bed. He had ruled out anything with a flat floor too. He was definitely outdoors. He was definitely in a forest. That meant something. Which forest? That meant nothing!

He reviewed what he knew and considered the possibilities. From a point outside of time and space he had turned up here. Where was here? Earth? Some other planet? Some other dimension? When was here? Present? Future? Past? What sort of critters inhabited this 'wood between worlds' he had landed himself in? Either the creature worrying at the shoulder of his jacket was a voracious predator, if so he should be dead already, or it wasn't. He sided with the 'wasn't'. If it wasn't a predator, his other options were scavenger or prey. If the latter, it was harmless. If the former, he needed to wake up. Quickly!

Leonard drew in a long breath as he focussed once more upon the back of his eyelids. He pressed his lids tightly together, then opened them.

A pale, crepuscular light filtered through the green canopy. The insistent tugging at his shoulder drew his attention back and round. The sudden turn of his head spooked the creature and it jumped backwards, tipping its head on one side and blinking elderberry black eyes at him. If it hadn't been for those eyes he might have thought he was staring back at some odd variety of green owl. But this owl had a parrot's beak and eyes. It blinked. He blinked back. It emitted a grumble-like call.

"Boo."

The owl-parrot thing turned and ran, disappearing into verdant undergrowth.

"Fine," he growled out. "I wasn't lonely anyhow!"

He rolled onto his side, groaning as the previously sleeping parts of his anatomy woke to an alarming chorus of pain. Now that his brain was fully awake, the rest of him was grudgingly following suit. He tried to push himself up, but at that his head rebelled. It was just one step too far. His vision swam. His stomach lurched. He closed his eyes again, but that made it worse. The forest floor seemed to reel and writhe below him. He emptied his stomach contents onto it and rolled back, collapsing into the Leonard Snart shaped hollow he had just dragged himself out of.

He was not going to die here, he decided. Leonard Snart did not step up and save the universe only to die in a pool of his own vomit somewhere in a random forest inhabited by weird birds.

He passed out.

 

The next time Leonard opened his eyes it was to the sound of gentle waves lapping against a sandy shore. The forest had gone. Thankfully, the pool of vomit had also gone, and he had missed everything but the arm of his jacket. He blinked against the harsh light of day, unfiltered by trees or clouds. This time his hand reached his eyes almost before he realised he had thought to move it. He tentatively edged himself up into a seated position. No tilting landscape. No pounding in his ears.

No vomit.

Progress.

He looked around himself. A vista of sand and sea spread serenely out before him. Behind him lay a forest. He was no expert on forests, but he was fairly sure it was a different forest from the last one. There were notably more palm trees.

"Now the _hell_ what?" Leonard muttered, then frowned as he replayed his words in his head. He groaned. "Travel _time_ damn!"


	2. A Time To Think

This was definitely not the same forest as before. All around Leonard were plants he at least semi-recognised, even if he couldn't quite name them. There was smoke rising over the horizon, but when he reached the rise in the land he saw it was just another island, the third in a chain he could now see and the furthest off. He had hoped for a settlement. A nearby one, at least. There were fruit trees further into the forest, and a stream. The water tasted okay so he stopped for a while to drink and wash his face and his jacket sleeve. All around him he could hear the sounds of local wildlife. Local to where? Somewhere in the Pacific, if he had to guess. Maybe Hawaii, or whatever passed for it before it got famous. As far as he could see, there were no signs of human habitation. Maybe the smoke meant something, but if he were right, and the more he thought about it the more certain he became that he was, then that could just as easily be a volcano.

So that settled the where. At least for now. What about the when? If the plants looked familiar did that mean he wasn't too far back in history? Was there any way to tell for sure? He had visited the islands once, just once, in his life, and that was for a job, not sightseeing. Still, they didn't look anywhere near the same in size, shape or number. He glanced at the sky, just visible through the canopy. The darkening blue told him night was on its way. All around him were trees and bushes. Not the most comfortable bed, and filled with who knows what kind of creepy crawlies, but he'd had worse nights. Still, he broke a handful of large waxy leaves off their long stems, gathered up some sticks and followed the rivulet back to the beach.

From the jut of land where the stream reached the ocean, Leonard could see the third island once again. There was a fiery glow beneath the rising smoke. So it was a volcano then. And the kind you find in Hawaii. Sometimes he hated being right. He sighed and laid the leaves down on a rock-free patch of sand, arranging some of them into a makeshift sleeping mat. The rest he put aside for cover. He dropped the sticks in a heap and started digging out a hollow for a fire pit. He had just got the random assortment of twigs piled up in the pit when a wave of dizziness and nausea hit him. Leonard staggered over to the water's edge. Better the receding tide do his tidying up for him this time. He retched, but there was nothing but water left in his stomach. Water and acid. He coughed, his throat burning, and stood up. In part, he was glad he hadn't actually tried any of the familiar, but not quite recognisable, fruit. Maybe the stream hadn't been such a good idea after all. Or maybe he wasn't quite over the effects of time jumping without a ship.

The world blurred around him, and Leonard thought he was passing out again. He put a hand out to a nearby boulder to steady himself, and collapsed onto green grass.

"What?" Leonard blinked as his vision cleared, looking around at his new surroundings. He was in a field. Just that. A rolling grassland that stretched from horizon to horizon with not a tree in sight.

Or a river.

Or a house.

Or anything to eat.

Even anything unrecognisable.

He sat up and tried to stand, then found he couldn't feel his legs.

"Ah, come _on_!"

XXXX

It was their first real mission since picking up Vixen.

It was their first real mission since Future Rex vanished.

It was their first real mission since getting the band back together.

It was their first real mission since Laurel.

It was their first real mission since Snart.

Sara drew a deep breath in through her nose, letting it out slowly through her mouth. She focused on her pulse, letting its steady rhythm calm her mind. There was a battle ahead. When wasn't there. Rip had decided to hunt down the remaining Time Captains throughout history. Apparently that meant any history. It had taken a while to spot the link, but it was there. Whenever the Time Council had decided to control something using the Oculus, another Earth was born. One where their will took place. Another where it didn't. They hadn't visited Earth Two yet, Rex's home dimension. That was something the paranoid android had warned them they, especially Sara, would not want to see. As far as Sara was concerned, she didn't care how evil or weak or ditzy she was, if it offered a hope of recruiting errant captains to the rebuilding of the Time Masters, she would quite happily take one for the team. Rex had dragged Rip away after that little announcement, though, and it seemed the worst of Sara Lance was too bad even for her Earth Two doppelganger to risk meeting.

They had visited Earth Three, briefly, and Earth Four. The latter being where they had picked up Vixen, in an era some sixty years before the Vixen she had heard her father talk about had appeared. Rip had been full of breezy explanations and idioms. Stein and Ray had expostulated expansively on the existence of a second Vixen. Rex had stayed noticeably silent. Only Jax had had the patience to inject some common sense into the proceedings. What if she was the Earth One Vixen's grandma? Or the dimensional equivalent, anyhow. What if her powers were just passed down?

In a world where everything they knew had been either learned on the job or achieved via radiation burst, that hadn't actually occurred to the other three. For smart people, they could be ridiculously stupid sometimes.

Now they stood, side by side with this unknown quantity, ready to head into their first big fight. Granted, it was to rescue Ray from the deceptively seductive woman who had turned out to be a Time Captain, but it was their first big fight nonetheless.

"You got the plan clear?" Sara murmured, watching the mud brick house Ray was being held in.

"Utterly and unequivocally," muttered an unmoving Vixen "You?"

"Always," Sara returned, tightening her jaw at the other woman's tone.

XXXX

Mick Rory hated jobs like these. Recovery jobs. Didn't matter if the mark was a person or a painting, he still hated them. He took the pair of infrared binoculars from Rip and glared at the abode. Whether Snart had planned it or not, and he was definitely siding with 'not' at this point, Haircut was in trouble. He may not have two brain cells to rub together in the thieving department, but he was a part of their team, and he was in trouble. And they don't ditch a part of their team. No matter how idiotically trusting. He breathed in deeply and hit the charge button on his flame-thrower. Idiot or not, he would always save his team.

XXXX

The sun had set, and the hot desert air was rapidly beginning to cool. Treading as softly as a cat, literally in Vixen's case, the two women approached the corner of the house. Netting had been tacked down over one unglazed window, and Sara carefully inserted a knife into its edge, slitting it silently from the bottom to the top. She cut across the base of the window netting, then pulled a piece aside to peer through. Ray was hunched in a corner, his hands behind his back, mouth gagged and ankles tied. She rolled her eyes. He sure could pick 'em! As far as she could tell, he was either unconscious or asleep. If it had been any other member of the team she would have just stuck with the first option, but Ray could sleep through anything and had an infantile confidence that Mick and the team would come for him no matter what happened.

She cut up the third edge of the netting and slid through the window, followed sinuously by the snakish version of Vixen. The totem at the woman's neck glowed, and the serpentine quality was gone. Instead, it was replaced again by the feline aspect. She was forty percent sure she heard the woman purr. Claws clicked out from Vixen's fingernails, and Sara watched their newest member reach out and draw a single claw through the rope at Ray's feet and along the tape over his mouth. Ray jumped awake at that, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. She raised an eyebrow at the world's dorkiest superhero, currently being rescued by the only two girls on the team, silently daring him to say it. She got her wish.

"Where's Mick?" Ray mumbled, removing the remains of the tape with his newly freed hands.

"He told me to say he's your getaway driver this evening," sighed Sara. "Apparently, you'll know what he means."

The huge grin on Ray's face told her that her surmise was exactly correct. She sighed again. She knew some of what their new found friendship was built on, but she couldn't help thinking Mick and Ray were a bad combination. But well, it is what it is, and that's none of anyone's business but their own. Behind her, the door opened.

She had forgotten, for a moment, to guard it.

A snarl from Vixen showed her ready for the fight that would ensue, but even then there were too many of them. Far too many. Sara tossed the box containing the A.T.O.M. suit to its owner and, moments later, Superhero Ray had taken over from adorable dork Ray.

Sara blocked, kicked and punched, all the while fighting the urge to simply see red. Finally, she stopped playing around and knocked five of the six guys there clean out. The last they sent home with a tale of warning, and as a signal to Mick that not everything went to plan. That was when the Time Temptress turned up, blonde hair curling over her shoulders, wicked smile, laser pistol and an absolute disregard for anyone's safety but her own. Vixen went flying fast, and backwards, into a wall, landing in a crumpled, unmoving heap on the mud and dust floor.

"Ray! Get her out of here!" Sara shouted over the sound of laser fire reflecting off her metal batons. "I'll follow you. I got this."

"Oh, sweetie, don't flatter yourself," laughed the Time Temptress.

Sara hated the name, but apparently the boys all felt differently. She couldn't _think_ why. It was Stein's fault. He had come up with it. She had made a sarcastic comment. Rip had retorted with one of his own. The boys had backed him up with locker room humour and chortling laughter. Vixen had remained stoic and unfathomable. Typical! No matter the issue, the remote, uncommunicative woman remained steadfastly on their captain's side.

Now, the woman they had spent so long researching that they felt they had time to sit and argue over her moniker, was shooting at her. Just her. All that firepower, concentrated on one spot. So far, she had been able to block the laser bursts, but she didn't know how much longer she could keep this up. Already she could feel her upper arm muscles tire. A stray pulse of energy crept past her and struck her arm, throwing her backwards. The woman they had started out wanting to recruit stood over her, pistol in hand. And Sara didn't even care.

"If you're gonna shoot, shoot!" Sara taunted.

"Fine, I will then!" Mick Rory's voice called out from the doorway.

Seconds later, a charred and surprised corpse notably failed to fall beside her. The woman, nevertheless, had vanished.

XXXX

Leonard sighed. Now he knew what it meant to feel lonely. It had taken nearly half an hour for his legs to regain sufficient feeling to actually work properly. Then he'd been walking for hours. Alone with nothing but his thoughts for company. Thoughts of Mick. Thoughts of Lisa. Thoughts of the Oculus and all he had left behind him. Thoughts of Sara.

Especially Sara.

She plagued his thoughts, invading every step, every breath, every heartbeat. She had crept up on him, hiding in his memories of everyone else, waiting for his full attention. Now she had it. And she wasn't going anywhere. He closed his eyes and his mind ranged over the leather clad form of Sara, dancing in the seventies. Fighting in the seventies. He never had been sure which he had preferred watching. Sara, giving one of her speeches. Sara, trying to catch him cheating at cards. Sara, watching Stein through the scope of a rifle, his voice in her ear. Sara, taking Rip down a peg. Sara, taking Mick down a peg. Sara taking him down a peg.

He smiled. Only Lisa and Lewis ever really tried telling him what to two. One wheedled and traded on brotherly guilt trips. The other lied, manipulated and hurt. In so many ways. Only Sara had tried telling him what to do with nothing more than the knowledge she was right and the expectation he would see that. And she was right. So many times. In so many ways. She had been right about his needing to settle things with Mick. She had been right about not abandoning Rip. She had been right about Gideon's plan. She had been right about him being one hell of a thief. She had kissed him after all.

His mind flew to that kiss, reliving every detail in slow motion. The taste of her lips. The scent of her hair. The reckless tenacity of her hand on his arm, burning the imprint of her grip into his memory clearer than any scar, refusing to release him until he understood. Understood the full weight and meaning of her choice to kiss him. Understood the heartache it would cause her, to let herself feel even just for that moment. Understood that she cared enough to feel the pain that would bring. Understood that she felt something for him. Something, perhaps, akin to what he felt for her. Understood that, if he hadn't been about to die heroically to save the universe, and his friends, maybe they could have been something. Maybe she wasn't sure what, yet, but neither was he. He only knew he wanted her in his future. And now he understood that she had wanted him in hers. If only he hadn't died.

But he hadn't died.

And she was in his future.

A long way into the future, but what's distance when you have a time ship? All he had to do was stay alive long enough for Sara and the others to find him. Assuming they were looking, of course.

He stopped short, his breathing faster than he would like. If he survived this nonsense he really must join a gym some time. There was still grassland around him. Miles and miles of it. Now at least, though, the horizon had changed. Or rather, it hadn't. Wherever he was, he was on a plateau. The land before him ended at the same point it had miles back. That point just seemed closer now.

"As long as there's not a T-rex peering up at me when I get to the edge, let's call it a win," he muttered.

The sky was starting to get darker again now too. Was it the onset of night that triggered his time jumps? It had been that odd twilight kind of light in the first forest too, but then he hadn't stuck around long enough to find out if it was caused by dawn or dusk. Perhaps it was a set length of time. He hadn't been fully conscious for either of the previous two jaunts, but this seemed longer than both already. But then, it would, wouldn't it? He hadn't spent any of the time passed out.

The horizon loomed, closer now than it had any right to be. Leonard reached the edge and peered down. It wasn't a sheer drop but it was a long one. Only an idiot would try the climb at the first signs of night. Only a suicidal idiot would try it when his body might decide to go for a swim through the time stream any moment. And he wasn't an idiot.

He wasn't suicidal either.

He threw himself down on a bed of flattened grass, wrapping his jacket around him and closing his eyes. Maybe it would help with the nausea, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe this time he might actually wake up without any weird, unhelpful side-effects.

He did.

In exactly the same spot the next morning.

"Oh, thank _God_!" Leonard drawled. "Finally the kind of time travel I'm used to!"


	3. A Time To Survive

The descent from the top of the plateau was short, but difficult. It would have been long and difficult had Leonard not lost his footing a quarter of the way down, slipping and rolling over the scree until a projecting boulder blocked his path. He added a bruised back to the mental tally of injuries this little jaunt was costing him. Already his hands were scuffed and raw, nails broken and bleeding where his grip had been the only difference between life and death. His jeans were torn, one knee bloodied, and a gash across his temples dripped red on the rock below him. He had been lucky. If the boulder had not stopped him, he would have made the climb down in fatally fast time. As it was, by the time he lowered himself the last few feet to the valley floor, arms and shoulders aching, he was starting to think wistfully of the many times he had ignored Gideon's medical help or advice, and wish fervently he had the option of doing so now.

Below the plateau, another grassland stretched out to a new horizon. Leonard sighed. There must be something here. Off to the east the land seemed lower, and the vegetation more verdant. Water, perhaps, he thought. He turned to march onwards in that direction, but stopped, his eyes narrowing at the sea of green before him. Was there movement over there? His mind was dragged back to movie night with his sister. Jurassic Park. The second one, he thought. Those little things in the grass.

"There always has to be a catch," Leonard growled under his breath. He turned back to the rock wall and selected as many fallen stones as would fit in his pockets and hands. "Because hey: who doesn't want a little extra weight to carry when they're half starved, sleep deprived and probably soon to be dying of thirst. Again!"

The mystery movements rustled around Leonard, now closer, now further away. Some sounded minuscule, like they were simply caused by mice or rats. Others sounded decidedly larger. A sudden, loud, heavy movement to his left had Leonard hurling the first of his primitive artillery in its direction. There was a hissing snarl that showed the stone had met its mark, then a hurried rustle away. He couldn't recognise the noise. It played over and over in his mind as he walked. Was it a cat? A snake? A lizard? Something else? Whatever it was, he saw no more of it. The occasional small shuffling sounded around him, but no more from the larger creatures, or creature.

Soon, the land began to dip as its horizon had promised. The air was fresher, with a cool breeze blowing through the increasingly hot sunlight. The breeze dragged the moisture from his breath, though, even as the sun distilled it from his brow, and the sight of the river, when it finally appeared through the grasses, was the most welcome he had seen all day.

Leonard dropped to his knees by the water, ignoring the stinging complaints of reopened cuts. He cupped his hands and drank, he washed his face and hands. Finally, he turned to sit, his burst knee stretched out in front of him, and bathed his wounds.

"Water, check," he murmured, running down yet another mental checklist. "Now we just need food and shelter."

A frown flickered across Leonard's face. We. He had never been one to talk to himself, but in this situation he had few other options. The 'we' had surprised him, though. He had never truly been alone, no matter what impression he may give to those who don't know him. He had had his mother, then his mother and Lisa. Then along came Mick. Then Flash and his goody two shoes team. Then Rip and his, well, not quite so pure and spotless team of not quite so legendary as expected misfits. And Sara.

He closed his eyes and splashed more water on his face. He was alone. For the first time in his life, he was truly alone. Out of reach of friends or family, or whatever the rest of the team had come to be. Out of contact. Out of touch. Out of their lives. He sighed. What if they were not looking for him? What if they thought he was dead? He ought to be dead. Several times over if the past couple of days had been any indication. How long had it been for them? How long had it been for him? He had only just come round in the first forest in time to spot a parrot, throw up and pass out again before jumping to the next. Was that his first stop since the Oculus? Were there others before it? Other time jumps that had been so short, and his reaction so severe, that he had remained unconscious throughout? Was he moving forward through time or back? Or both? How long did he have until his next jump? Would he jump again? Perhaps he had stopped.

He shook his head. It didn't matter. Questions or no questions, it wouldn't make the blindest bit of difference if he didn't get up and get moving. He needed food. He had water. He had spent one night under the stars here already. He had the only weapons he could find filling his pockets. Food was his sole remaining priority.

Looking up river, all he could see was grassland and far off cliffs. Looking downstream, the land continued to curve and undulate around the crease of the waterway. The darker green of the vegetation grew bolder and bushier, and he was sure he could make out some trees in the distance. He picked up his feet and carried on, following the river on its unceasing journey.

XXXX

Sara followed Mick back on to the jump ship, where Ray was bending over the unconscious form of Vixen. Behind them, Firestorm landed and split, Martin and Jax hurrying past the Canary to check on their fallen comrade.

"She's fine," Ray assured them. "Just took a direct hit from a laser pistol and went straight into a wall."

"Nevertheless, Doctor Palmer," began Martin, checking the younger woman's pulse for himself, "I for one will feel better once Gideon has had the opportunity to confirm your diagnosis and render any assistance necessary."

"Yeah, me too," nodded Ray, settling himself into an adjacent seat as the engines started up. "You should have seen her, Professor. She had these claws, and this aura... I swear I heard her snarl!"

"Astonishing!" Martin beamed. The legend of the totem had fascinated him as much as it had Ray, and he had been hoping all day to get a chance to see it in action. For now, however, eyewitness accounts were intriguing enough.

Sara glanced over at Mick and Jax, side by side at the controls, then took her own seat. The remaining Rogue had asked her what happened to the Time Temptress, even though he'd had as clear a view as she. He had asked her if she was okay. If she was injured or hurt in any way. She'd shrugged off the question with a desultory 'fine'. He hadn't asked the question that would have been first on her lips. Or on Snart's, she was sure. He hadn't asked her what the hell happened.

The trip back to the Waverider was uneventful. Mick and Jax muttered to each other about the controls and repairs that still needed doing. Stein listened to Ray expound on the details of the day's events, at least as far as they concerned their newest recruit, who still sat unconscious between them. She was almost glad to see Rip when they docked. He didn't need to ask her what happened. His glare did it for him. She returned it with interest and kept walking. He didn't follow her.

Half an hour later, the other shoe dropped.

Sara didn't deal well with mistakes. Not her own mistakes that could have been avoided, anyway. Especially not when others ended up getting hurt because of them. Her go-to hiding place was the storeroom she used for training. It was clearer now than it had been when she and Kendra first started training there, but it was truly ridiculous how many crates of unintelligible junk Rip had amassed in the hull of his time ship and the room would never be completely empty until the man had a serious clear out. Still, there was room enough for now and a place to store the wider range of weapons she was collecting. Gideon had even fabricated a storage unit for them that attached to the wall of the room. The wall she had managed to fully clear, that is. A target board, which Gideon had fabricated before anyone even thought to ask and after only the third knife in the ship's walls, hung at the opposite side of the room. It wasn't really a challenge. The room was too small. It had its uses though. She and Mick had already scrawled scores onto it and started a league table. Currently Ray was bottom.

She threw the knife almost lazily. It thunked into the heavy board.

"You missed," murmured Rip, leaning precariously against the relative safety of the door frame. The knife had hit the second innermost ring of the target. It was not alone. "Is that what happened on the mission?"

Sara clenched her jaw and picked up another knife.

"Something happened, Sara," he continued calmly, walking into the room and leaning against the target board. "A gang of thugs do not just creep up on a trained assassin. I know this. You know this."

A knife thudded into the board a hand span from his right ear. He didn't even blink.

"I lost focus," Sara replied eventually, a third knife ready in her hand. "I let myself get distracted. I didn't hear them."

"Distracted by what?" Rip pressed, noting the thoughtful way Sara was turning the knife over in her hands. He held his ground. "Amaya is fine, by the way. Gideon checked her over and she was coming round when I left to find you. I make it maybe two more minutes, tops, before she works out where you are too."

"Distracted by not being able to tell for a second if I was looking at a woman or a cat," Sara retorted, the third knife hitting the board two inches from his left ear. This time she thought she saw his jaw tighten, just a fraction. "Distracted by finding out if Ray was okay."

"That all?"

Sara's hand reached for another knife, but found none. They were all on the board. She stalked over and dragged the three on the target ring out of their resting places, fitting them into holders on her belt and arms. She turned to the still immobile form of Rip, standing nonchalantly against the wall, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other and an eyebrow raised in her direction. She reached up to grab the knives on either side of his head.

"Canary! What was that?" Vixen yelled, cannoning into Sara's side and pushing her across the room. "Is that what you call teamwork? Is that your idea of watching your partner's back?"

"Amaya, calm down," Rip interjected, trying to place himself between the two women.

"Hey! Everyone has off days!" Sara retorted, pressing forward to stand toe to toe with the other woman despite their captain's attempts to keep them apart. "We can't all be as perfect as you!"

"Sara! Calm down!" Rip ordered, his head whipping round to the blonde. "Ladies, please! This is not the way to handle this!"

"But throwing knives at you is?" Amaya countered, turning on him. "What fool stands in front of this madwoman and lets her use him for target practise? Look at yourself, Hunter. You're bleeding! The only reason you're still alive is probably her incompetence!"

"Like I would ever deliberately hurt a member of my team!" Sara scoffed, pushing past Rip. "He's only bleeding because you attacked me right when I was removing the knife by his head! Just like I only missed our guests today because I was checking you hadn't slit Ray's throat with those cat claws of yours!"

"My job was to get Palmer," Vixen pointed out, utterly ignoring Rip's attempts to intervene. "Your job was to watch the door and handle the inevitable attack that was going to come through it. We knew they would be coming and you still weren't ready! Some assassin!"

"You could have warned me you were gonna go all Thundercats when we got in there!"

"I didn't ask for a display of your abilities before we went in!"

"I fight. I kill people," Sara snapped.

"Not today you didn't!" Vixen shot back.

"Today ain't over..."

"Oh-kay, enough!" Rip yelled, silencing the two women. "Amaya! Go back to the medical bay and ask Gideon for the first aid kit. I will join you there when I'm done here. That's an order!"

The glare the newcomer levelled at the captain could have cut glass, but she complied, slamming a hand on the palm scanner to close the door behind her. Her footsteps stormed down the hallway and echoed into silence.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," hissed Sara. Her gaze met his steadily, but her voice was shaking with rage.

"Believe me, I wasn't," quipped the captain, fishing a handkerchief out of a pocket and pressing it to his face. "I was fighting hers."

"Oh, you're on _her_ side now," said Sara, dragging out the pronoun and folding her arms, a knife still in each hand. "I see."

"It's not about sides, Sara," Rip warned. "We both just want to know what happened and why."

"I told you what happened," she replied tersely.

"But not why," he shot back. "Although I think I can guess."

"You gonna psychoanalyse me now, Rip?" Sara asked, her voice almost daring him to try it.

"I don't need to," he pointed out. "I know how little you've eaten recently, and I know how little you've slept too. There's no way you can be focussed on staying alive in the field when you can barely manage it when you're not!"

"Well, you should know!" Sara retorted, walking back to her empty weapons case and replacing the knives in it. She got to the one with Rip's blood on it and paused.

"I do know," he murmured, from far closer than she had expected him to be. "That's how I know you're not coping. And you're not ready to be back out there yet."

"Don't you dare..."

"You're staying on board until Gideon clears you for active duty," he continued, staring down the warning she was glaring at him.

"Rip, don't..."

"I know it's difficult, right now, Sara, believe me, I do," he assured her, reaching out a hand that got smacked away.

"Go to hell!" Sara hissed.

"Been there, done that," he murmured. "Trying to make sure you don't go down the same road." 

"Too late," she whispered.

Sara turned back to the weapons case, wiping the drying blood off the last blade before replacing it. She heard Rip's footsteps receded, then pause at the door.

"By the way," he began, his voice something a shade closer to what passed for normal between them. "If you've never deliberately hurt a member of your team, what do you call the two occasions where you punched me and the three on which you held a knife to my throat? Once after throwing me to the ground if I recall!"

Sara sniffed and closed the lid of the box. "The times when I wasn't on your team."

XXXX

It was mid afternoon before Leonard finally found something resembling food. They were berries, and berries could quite often be poisonous, but they looked close enough to something he'd seen in a supermarket to make him risk trying one. That was an hour ago now and he was still fine, so he had spent the time collecting as many as he could. It was too warm to wear his jacket and he needed something to carry things in, so he had fashioned it into a weird, sling-like bag. The stones were still in the pockets, and he could still get to them easily enough, but the interior of the contraption was now half full of berries.

Shrubs and bushes had taken over from the grassland, reaching thirsty roots out to the river bank. Now, small trees were starting to surround him. If they were fruit trees, though, he was in the wrong season. He searched the duller patches, looking for something that resembled mushrooms. Fungi could be just as much a lottery as berries, though.

The shadows lengthened, and a buzzing noise filled Leonard's head. He staggered, dropping to his knees as the world changed around him once more.

And this time there were people.


	4. A Time to Grieve

Leonard watched as the woman gathered sticks from the forest floor. She hadn't seen him yet, but she had left the rest of her group behind and was decidedly heading his way.

It was not quite as warm under the shade of these new trees and Leonard felt the sweat on his back cool. He looked down at his jacket. The berries and mushrooms he had gathered were still there. They had travelled with him. That was new. Interesting.

As far as he could see, he had four options. He could chance staying where he was and wait to see if the woman spotted him. He could try to sneak away, further into the forest, but that might make discovery more likely. He could crouch down further and hope it helped to camouflage him enough. He could get up and go talk to her. Or try to, anyway.

He looked at the berries he was carrying, then at the sparse collection of morsels the woman had gathered. The mushrooms too, although he hadn't tried them yet, might prove a useful currency.

She was getting closer. Time to make a decision. He would have to stand up and approach her, but how? He had no idea what kind of language, if any, these women spoke, or how advanced it might be. Would he even recognise it? They must communicate somehow. He had heard a variety of trills and clicks coming from the direction of the group, but couldn't make out any other sounds.

It was now or never, if he wanted to maintain some sort of balance of power. If he waited much longer, she would find him still crouching, and would surely have both the means and opportunity to attack before he had any chance to make it clear he meant no harm. He really did mean her no harm. He would be a fool to start a fight against the only people actually surviving in this new world. Lifting the makeshift bag off his shoulders, Leonard stood up, holding it before him like a shield. Or an offering.

He had been prepared for the shriek. He had been prepared for the rest of the group of women to come running to their sister's aid. He had even been prepared to dodge the projectiles he fully expected them to cast in his direction, though none were forthcoming. What Leonard Snart had not been prepared for, however, was for the entire group, beginning with the lone woman who had first seen him, to drop to the ground before him and start, very obviously, to worship him.

XXXX

It had been two months. Two months to the day since they had blown up the Oculus, destroyed the Time Masters and the Vanishing Point base, and returned to Central, and later Star, City. Two months since she had learnt of her sister's death. Two months since she had watched the man she had been starting to think might be her future choose his own fate, and his own death.

Sleep was impossible. Her brain replayed memories like they were stuck on a loop. Sometimes it would be her sister's laugh. Sometimes his sarcastic drawl. Sometimes uno cards with Laurel as kids. Sometimes gin with Leonard as adults. Well, what passed for adults. She would remember a familiar smell, sound, taste, touch, and she was back there in the memory. It could have been her sister's perfume that had made her reach for her hidden stash. It could have been the memory of an icy evening and conversations about death. They had both managed it in the past. This time it was the kiss that got her. It flitted unbidden into her mind and suddenly there she was, surrounded by the memory. By the sound of the fight heading towards them. By the sight of that resolute determination in his eyes. By the touch of his lips on her own. The taste of him. The smell of him. The look in his eyes when she had pulled away. The question. The uncertainty. Only to be replaced moments later by that emotionless mask he had worn for so long. Now the questions was hers. The uncertainty was hers.

If she had kissed him sooner, would he have chosen a different path?

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and eyes with the back of her hand and rolled over. Under the far corner of the mattress was a panel that Leonard had shown her could be removed. She had taken to stashing the odd bottle of vodka or tequila, or whatever other spirit she could acquire in whatever place and time they stopped, in there, along with some emergency knives and two shot glasses. They were padded around with one of the Waverider's Egyptian cotton hand towels, just in case a sudden attack, explosion or other bump in the never smooth road caused glass and metal to have a fatal disagreement. Gideon had offered to make a memory foam holder for them, but, as the bottle shapes kept changing, Sara had eschewed the offer in favour of something a bit more old-school.

The bottle was nearly empty. Sara drained it. But one shot was never going to knock out the girl who drank Mick Rory under the table. She sighed and closed the panel, shuffling over to the side of the bed and slipping down onto the cold metal floor. She had slippers, but she ignored them. The cold didn't bother her. It was a welcome distraction. Right now, anything would be.

The Waverider's kitchen was quiet and still, its lights dimmed to their artificial night setting. Sara Lance opened cupboard after cupboard and drawer after drawer. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. There was never going to be alcohol in there. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't thirsty. She wasn't anything. She just couldn't sleep. Before, when memories of the Lazarus pit and its consequences were the only things that haunted her dreams, she had worked off her restlessness by training. Now, it seemed, she couldn't even do that. She had tried, on her wandering way through the ship's corridors and multitudinous rooms. Without a sparring partner to focus on, her mind had invented its own. It was the same every time now. Every time she picked up her staff to train, she found herself remembering. Remembering the guards they had fought through to get to Mick's side. Remembering the guards she had fought through to get Mick out. Remembering every battle and bar brawl with him by her side. How she wished she could stop remembering. Just for one night.

"Is there something specific you would like me to make for you, Miss Lance?" Gideon's disembodied voice politely enquired.

"Tequila?" Sara murmured, twisting her lip up into a wry smile.

"My apologies," the computer responded, her artificial tone sounding perhaps a shade more human in its empathy. "I can produce a synthetic alcohol that will taste exactly like tequila, if you wish, but it will not have the same intoxicating effect I believe you are looking for."

"Synthahol," snorted Sara. "I bet the Trekkies in the team would love to know that!"

"Would you like me to prepare some?" Gideon persisted.

"No, Gideon," said Sara, waving a dismissive hand at thin air. "Don't bother. You were right the first time: it's the real stuff I'm after."

"Why do you think I keep that stash of vintage Scotch?" Rip's weary voice intoned behind her.

She didn't bother to turn round. "Got any left?"

A glass tumbler clinked onto the counter beside her. Then another, further away. She heard the familiar sound of a cork being removed from a bottle and liquid sloshing into the two glasses. The cork was replaced and the bottle set down on the counter with a thunk. 

"I'm still angry with you," she said, taking the glass without turning. It was becoming a more familiar phrase in his presence than 'good morning'.

"I know," he replied, as always. She heard him take a sip. He didn't put the glass down again. He didn't leave either.

"Why are you here?" Sara asked finally, after staring at her own, untouched drink for what felt like an eternity.

"I was awake."

She didn't have to ask why. "And what? You just happened to pass by with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses?"

"Gideon may have mentioned something."

Sara glared at the ceiling as if the insubstantial AI could read the betrayal on her features.

Silence was the loud reply.

She took a sip of the Scotch. It was one of the smoother varieties. "Macallan?"

"Glenfiddich."

She nodded.

Silence.

"If you need to talk..."

"I know."

Silence.

"I should go," he murmured.

"Don't," she shot back, faster, much faster, than she'd meant to.

He didn't move. No more than to take another sip from his glass anyhow. She didn't know what to do with that. What to say. What to feel. All she knew was she didn't want to be alone. 

"Was it easier?" Sara asked, her face contorting into a puzzled frown. "Before. When you still had Savage to kill."

"Perhaps," he returned, pausing to sip his Scotch. "It gave me something to focus on. Stopped me facing things, though. Dealing with them."

"How do you do it?" Sara wondered aloud.

"Do what?" Rip enquired, placing his glass down with a clink.

"Carry this grief," she clarified. "The pain of having to go on. Alone."

"Take things one day at a time," he replied, and she could hear the shrug. "See where I end up."

XXXX

The next morning dawned bright and clear, or, at least, the image in Sara's "window" did. The ship was floating in deep space, a rare treat now that fewer people were actively trying to hunt them down. When she had removed herself from the rest of the group, Professor Stein had been arguing event horizon calculations with Ray, and Mick had been trying to convince Rip to take them to see a star explode. With the exception of the captain, that was the last she had seen or heard of the rest of her team, and they of her. She groaned at the light and sat up.

"What time is it, Gideon?" Sara enquired, rubbing her eyes.

"Six o'clock, Miss Lance," replied the computer, "as you requested. I would, however like to point out that, missions and emergencies notwithstanding, I am fully capable of monitoring your varying sleep levels throughout the night, and of waking you once sufficient hours of both rapid eye movement and deep sleep have been obtained."

"Ever heard of the term 'circadian rhythm', Gideon?" Sara quipped, dragging leaden legs out of the bed.

"It is my belief that these do not usually include the periods of wakefulness that still disrupt your habitual sleep pattern, Miss Lance," countered the artificial intelligence. "However, if you insist on maintaining your early morning routines, you should know that I am also equipped with several guided meditation programs that may be of use to you in returning your body to its previous pattern. Might I recommend trying one of them, perhaps this evening?"

"I think I can guide myself through meditation by now, Gideon," sighed Sara. "But thanks for the offer."

When she approached her little practise room, she froze. Someone was already there, working through moves that were too light footed to be any of the men. Sara decided she really could not face another confrontation this early in the morning, and turned around. There were plenty of other rooms on board the Waverider. They might not have her weapons in there, but she could train with them later. Mick had a punch bag set up in one of the emptier store rooms he had taken over. She could use that.

"Somebody do somethin' to deserve that beatin'?" Mick asked an hour later from the door of his training room. "Or do you just really hate that bag?"

Sara stopped, catching the swinging punch bag and her breath, and turned to Mick. "You got something to say, Mick, just spit it out."

"Why? You're not gonna listen. You never do. Not to me," the tall man frowned. "Not about this."

"Well, that's never stopped you before," she retorted, turning back to the punch bag and resuming her workout. "Why break the habit of a lifetime?"

"So tell me what happened yesterday and I'll leave you in peace," he bargained, watching Sara land a pattern of kicks on the beleaguered bag.

"I got distracted by Vixen and making sure Ray was okay," she began, reciting an already worn out excuse, but Mick was quick to cut her off.

"After that," he barked, watching the Canary with a keenness the old Heat Wave would never have been able to employ. "When I got there. You were down but you could have got up. You didn't even try. You even told her to fire. If I hadn't been there..."

"You _were_ there!"

"Not the point."

Sara continued her assault on the bag. Mick walked over and caught it, holding it steady while kicks turned to punches. Eventually, the assassin sagged against the wall behind her. He let go of the bag and watched her, arms folded, the hot-headed rage of yesteryear reduced to a patient, incessant simmer.

"I took a risk," Sara sighed, reaching for her water. "She could have finished me before I even got the words out of my mouth. She didn't. She could have killed Ray much easier than kidnap him. She was baiting us. Testing us. Playing with us. She wanted to see our tactics and skills first hand. She didn't want us dead. Not yet."

Mick's raised eyebrows slid even further up his forehead, considering the possible truth of this assessment. "She certainly had plenty of opportunities to take out Haircut," he admitted. "And no obvious reason not to."

"I'm hungry," muttered Sara, moving past the pyro and out into the corridor. "I'm gonna go grab a shower then breakfast."

"You want me to cook you somethin'?" Mick offered, still unconvinced that he had heard the whole truth. "I do some mean pancakes."

"Don't let Ray hear you say that," laughed Sara, backing away down the corridor. "I'll fix my own food though, thanks."

"Any time, Blondie," rumbled the Rogue.

The kitchen was mercifully empty when Sara got there, hair still damp from the shower. She made herself some toast and was pouring her second glass of orange juice when Rip walked in. He froze. She paused, then put the cap back on the juice and returned the bottle to the refrigerator.

"I'm still angry with you for benching me," she said, keeping her eyes on her glass, "but I've already gone ten rounds with Mick's punch bag this morning, so you're safe."

"How are you feeling this morning, Miss Lance?" Rip attempted, warily.

Sara threw him a look. "I have enough to do with Mick and Gideon trying to mollycoddle me. Don't you start."

She walked over and picked up her remaining toast. Rip fished a mug out of a cupboard and poured himself some coffee.

"What happened last night," Sara began, sipping her orange juice thoughtfully. "Can we keep it between us? I mean, Gideon is already lecturing me on lack of sleep: I don't need it getting back to Mick that I spent half of last night in here talking to you."

Rip put down the coffee and turned to meet her gaze. "I wouldn't dream of telling the others," he replied, not taking his eyes off hers once. "Everything that was said last night stays in this room, between us."

Sara held his gaze a little longer, trying to decide if he meant what he said or was simply trying to make her believe he did. "Thank you," she said, eventually. "For that, and for last night. I appreciate you listening to me. And the alcohol didn't hurt either."

"Any time," he nodded, his eyes flicking down for a moment then back up to hers. "And I mean that, Sara. Night or day. Whether I'm awake or not, you can always talk to me. I will always listen."

"I..." Sara began, but was cut off by Professor Stein, hurrying into the room.

"Have either of you seen Raymond?" Stein demanded, looking from Rip to Sara and back again. "There is the most marvellous feature developing in the nebula we parked next to last night! I believe it may be caused by the shockwave from a supernova event!"

"Gideon, locate Doctor Palmer, please," Rip sighed at the ceiling.

"Doctor Palmer is currently on the bridge," replied the always amused AI.

"But I've just come from there!" Stein wailed. "Ugh, we must have missed each other in passing. Gideon, please tell Doctor Palmer to remain where he is and that I am on my way to him."

"Doctor Palmer has been informed, Professor," Gideon reported.

Without another word, the professor scurried out in search of his brother in science. Rip and Sara looked at each other and gave a short laugh.

"I'm still annoyed with you, though," Sara told her boss.

"I understand," he nodded. "Last night was personal, this is professional."

"Or as professional as we get," quipped the Canary, shrugging. She put her empty plate and glass in the little cleaning cupboard, where Gideon dematerialised and rematerialised the crockery, minus residual traces of breakfast. Sara took them out and returned them to their rightful places. "I guess I should say, then, that _professionally_ , I'm still angry with you."

Rip's mouth twisted into a smirk as she left the room. "I know."

XXXX

Life as a god was not half bad, thought Leonard Snart as he picked the meat off the bone of some unidentifiable creature. He had spent the last two and a half days being looked after by the cave dwelling colony he had stumbled across. Not that "cave dwelling" was a fully accurate description, of course. Most of the group lived outside the cave, in small huts of animal hide, stretched over wood or bone. Only the leader of the group, and his family, currently lived inside the cave. And Leonard.

He was seventy percent sure he was eating mammoth.

On the bright side, at least he'd managed to get them to cook it this time.

He could understand their reaction, now that he thought about it. He had appeared our of nowhere, bearing a strange animal hide full of strange fruits and fungi - not poisonous as it turned out. He had been dressed in more strange skins. When he spoke, his language was strange. His hair was impossibly short. He was taller than them. He carried no spear, yet when one of their menfolk had attacked him, he laid them out cold with one punch. Then, of course, to cap it all, it seemed like he was the one to introduce them to the concept of fire. Fire they could control, at least. Fire they could cook food with.

If only Mick could see him now!

He picked the last piece of meat off the bone and tossed the inedible remains into a nearby fire pit. It wasn't the world's greatest breakfast, but it wasn't the worst either. They would be expecting him, out there in the hot sun. They could not understand, any of them, why he wore so much clothing. They lived their lives wearing the bare minimum, sometimes not even that, and they added layers as the day cooled. He simply put his jacket back on if it got too cold.

Not that the nights here were the coldest he had experienced.

Not by a long shot!

His memory flitted back to that night. That bone-chilling cold that had soaked into him the way water soaks into a sponge. He had been freezing to death, an irony that was not lost on him, yet he had taken off his jacket and wrapped it around the slight frame of his favourite assassin. It was unlike him. It was alien to him to care for anyone other than Lisa and Mick. And yet he had done it.

That had been his first clue.

Maybe there had been something there before and he hadn't realised it, but there, shivering in that room, frost forming on their faces: that was when he had first realised he felt something for Sara Lance.

If only he had done something about it sooner.

He closed his eyes and pictured her face. It was a daily ritual for him. He refused to forget her, to let go. If the time drift Hunter had described, back when the ladies, and the boy scout, were left behind in the fifties, was going to start stripping away his memories, his sense of self, he would make damn sure Sara Lance was a memory he held on to for as long as possible. Every morning, he picked a memory and focussed on it, replaying it in full surround sound, glorious technicolour detail. This morning it was a card game in the kitchen. He had been leaning on the counter, his back to the wall and his ankles crossed on the seat opposite. She had been perched on the counter itself, her feet on a seat on her side, back against the wall of drawers, if she leant back at all, that is. He let his mind's eye roam over the tumbling blonde locks, the freckled cheeks, that tiny line of concentration between her eyes. He followed her gaze down to her cards, and her hands: hands so deadly and so agile, yet so delicate and graceful. His gaze travelled up perfectly toned arms and down over the steady rise and fall of her chest, then down over slim, dainty hips, legs, ankles and feet. Feet that could and would kick his ass in an instant if their owner ever heard him describe her as "dainty".

He smiled. He hadn't cheated that time, just sat back and enjoyed the view. She had still spent a good half hour trying to figure out how he had, though, after his only completely bona fide win of the morning. He had even consented to let her check his pockets and sleeves for spare cards. Somehow, the memory of himself, backed up against the wall, with Sara's hands running up his arms and down over his pockets, forget-me-not blue eyes boring into his own, seemed more real, and more recent, than anything else.

He pushed himself up off his rock, the seat of honour around the fire pit, to stand and walk out into the sunshine. The little village was quiet, most of the adults having left to forage or hunt, leaving only a few others behind to take care of the children. And the "god". It had started very slowly, but he was starting to understand their speech. Some words were even coming across in English. He wondered how the translator functioned. Gideon had had to change the language before, but Gideon wasn't here any more. Perhaps, without Gideon, it always took this long. Perhaps.

Leonard wandered through the village and down to the nearby river. There was a spot where the bank had been worn down by multiple feet, both human and not, going down to the water to drink. There were none there now. There never were at this time of day. Piece by piece, he stripped off his clothes and waded into the water. The river was cool and clear, and green water plants cushioned its gravel bed. He waded out until the water covered his waist then sank down and began to swim.

By the time Leonard returned to the minuscule village, the sun was high overhead and rising to its zenith. He shaded his eyes with his hand and paused, looking at the peaceful settlement thoughtfully. It was now three full days since his arrival in the forest. This forest. Three days without jumping. He wondered if the jumps had stopped, or if he would soon have to say goodbye to this place too. At least he could survive here, Sort of.

He glanced down at the simple leather bag he was carrying, his jacket now on his back once more. One of the women had presented it to him yesterday and he had been determined to bring it back full today. It was maybe two thirds there. He shrugged and looked up to continue his walk back to the huts, and froze.

A familiar figure, in a flowing brown coat, was snooping around just behind an outcrop of rock.


	5. A Time to Make Plans

Leonard picked up his pace and made it back to the camp in half the time he would have otherwise. He tipped the contents of his bag into the nut shell bowls that lay waiting and hurried to the jutting rock.

"Rip," he drawled, dragging the word out far more than necessary. "You took your time."

A startled face bobbed up from behind the rock. It was Rip all right, but immediately Leonard knew something was off.

"Excuse me?" Rip blinked in confusion. Then a look of recognition lifted his features. "You! It's you!"

"Glad we've got that settled," quipped Leonard. "Now can we get on with the rescue?"

"Rescue?" Rip's frown increased again. "Who are we rescuing?"

"Me, Hunter!" Leonard snapped, worrying that his first fears were finding evidence to support them. "I saved your ass in the future, all your asses, the least you can do is save mine in the past!"

"You saved a lot in that revolution, sir," frowned Rip, waxing pedantic, "but I do not recall my neck being at stake. I don't recall ever giving you my name either."

"What?" Leonard spun around the edge of the rock. So his hypothesis was right, then. He would have to tread carefully now. Very carefully. Who knows what inadvertent spoiler could change the way the Time Master did things. If it even worked that way.

"Ever been to twenty sixteen, Rip?" Leonard asked, watching the captain's face. He could pinpoint the differences now. It was younger. Happier. Healthier.

"Not yet," replied Rip cautiously. "I'm guessing I will, though."

"And I'm guessing," began Leonard, finally deciding to test out his theory and dreading the answer he might get, "you've met me once I've jumped into the future sometime?"

Rip nodded. "Two sometimes. The first time I only saw you from a distance. The second time, we spoke. But you were different then. And you showed no signs of recognising me."

"Which came first, year-wise, for you?" Leonard wondered aloud, narrowing his eyes as theories formed and reformed in his brain.

"The more modern one first," Rip informed him, wary of how much this stranger knew. And how much he didn't. "The second time was between then and now."

"Opposite directions," Snart rolled his eyes. "Who'd have thunk it?"

"My ship isn't far..."

"As much as I would love to bandy words with Gideon again," began Snart, folding his arms, "your past is my future and my past is yours. If this version of you saves me now there might be some temporal explosion of something, and everything we fought for would be lost. No, I have a better idea."

"Which is?"

"I need you to take a message to your future self," said Leonard, leaning sideways against the rock. "Long way round. I need you to remember me. Remember me when you get to hiring, and remember, later on, when the mission's done, that I'm still out here. That I'm _still alive_."

"But you'll be trapped here, in the Stone Age," Rip felt the need to point out. "At least until you time jump into..."

" _Don't_ tell me," Snart cut him off. "My future remember."

"Of course," muttered Rip. "I forgot."

"Forget whatever else you like, just remember _me_ ," snarled Snart. "Doesn't matter what you know about my future: if you've met me in it, looks like I'll have one. That's enough for now. Listen, Rip, I need you to promise me something. Something else, that is."

"What?"

"At the danger of disrupting the timeline, I need you to look after some people for me, after I end up on this merry jaunt and you all think I'm dead. I need you to make sure my sister, Lisa, is okay. She's tough, but I'm all she's got and she won't show it easily if she's not. I need you to make sure Mick is okay. He'll blame me in part, but he'll blame himself more and he won't show it. Not the way anyone else would notice. And I need you to look after Sara. Mick'll try, but he's the only one who has any inkling how important she is to me, and he ain't the world's greatest expert on caring for others. Or about them. And only Sara knows how important I am to her. I don't know how she'll react. She might be fine, although, personally, I hope she grieves for me at least a little. Or she might not be. Last time she was stuck in a situation she couldn't handle, she went back over to the dark side. You can't let her do that again. You need to promise me, Hunter, that you'll watch out for her."

"This Sara, Mick and Lisa," said Rip, waving a hand around as he recounted the names. "I take it I 'hire' them too?"

"Mick and Sara yes, Lisa no. Don't you dare," Snart fixed a murderous look on Hunter. "And don't even think of dragging her in as my replacement! Think you can remember all that?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Rip vacillated, pushing his coat back to stuff his hands in his pockets, and avoiding Leonard's glare.

"Meaning what?" Snart enquired, eyeing him askance.

"Time travel isn't exactly a strict progression of cause to effect, you know," he shrugged, leaning back against the rock wall and watching the wind move the grasses by his feet. "You say you know me, in my future, but did the me in my future know you?"

"If he did, he's even more of an asshole than I thought," muttered Leonard.

"Then it's likely that whatever changes you cause in anyone else's timeline, they won't take effect until they do so in yours," muttered the younger version of the captain, ignoring the insult to his older self. "Imagine you have been travelling through time for, say, a week, and you meet someone you left behind in the future a week ago, but you meet them in their past. They won't remember that encounter until a week after you leave. Maybe not even exactly a week. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons, and time takes, well, _time_ to..."

"Solidify, yeah, I got it," said Leonard, turning to lean his back to the rock wall, mirroring Rip. "So I could be stuck bouncing around through time and, until your future self remembers me, my girl is stuck thinking I'm dead. Sister and best friend too. But now you've met me. Why am I still hopping time periods in the future?

"I don't know," shrugged Rip, shaking his head. "I doubt anyone fully understands it. We do know that time, or the timestream, anyway, runs at different speeds for different people in different eras. What is a week for you may be a year for them, or vice versa. Things, like memories, movement of objects, changes to history, they'll still happen in the same order, and at the same equivalent times, but all relative to the speed at which one is passing through the timestream. And in the right order for them too. I've already met you. Twice. But both occasions, it seems, were in your personal future. The future me, then, won't remember you until you meet past me for the first time, if he remembers you at all. Memories are hard things to change. They are temporary, transient. They do not have to last, so they do not have to be formed. It would take something very drastic for them to be retrieved, too, let alone made in the first place. The brain would almost have to be rebooted, like a computer, to retrieve them."

"Suggestions then?" Snart purred. "You're the so-called expert. Impress me."

Rip's eyes focussed on the ground some distance away, looking thoughtful. "Well, I dare say you could try what brought me here. You'd have to be careful how you did it of course, and then there's always the danger of time drift..."

"Did what?" Snart asked sharply. "Try finishing a thought out loud before we move on to the next one, Hunter."

"The discovery of fire," the Time Master pointed out. "That's why I'm here. It's what we do, the Time Masters. We monitor the great changes and stepping stones in history and make sure they are happening for the right reasons. No out-of-time interference, you might say. You've caused one of the greatest stepping stones in history to happen earlier than it should have here. It might have a lasting effect, or, once you leave, it might slide back into the mists of time. An anomaly for archaeologists to argue over."

"And a little paradox for the Time Police to investigate," added Snart with a nod. "I see. And I would appreciate it if you did not mention my existence to _them_. Better make sure Gideon has no record either: who knows whom she might pass it on to."

"Should I ask why?" Rip queried, his brow creasing.

"Probably best not," drawled Snart. He raised a hand to his head and groaned. "Ugh. I guess you were right about one thing, I'm jumping again. Don't forget: I'm _ALIVE_! Tell Sara!"

"I'll do my best, I..." Rip turned to find he was talking to an empty rock wall. He slumped sideways against the cool stone and finished the thought out loud. "I promise."

XXXX

"I promise, this will go much smoother than our last attempt," Rip pontificated on his way across the bridge.

"Yeah, because this time we won't let Haircut wander off and talk to strangers," rumbled Mick, snapping the metal harness down over his broad shoulders.

"Hey!" Ray complained from the seat opposite.

"You say this guy knows you, Rip?" Jax asked, following the professor to their seats.

"If the gentleman in question is already acquainted with you, Captain Hunter," began Martin, continuing the thought his younger half had begun, "perhaps you should be the one to first approach him."

"While I do appreciate the logic of that suggestion, Professor," muttered Rip, typing in co-ordinates in preparation for the jump, "a chance meeting with myself may not produce _quite_ the desired effect upon this precise individual."

"What'd you do?" Sara smirked, sauntering out onto the bridge in time to catch Firestorm's comments and the captain's response."

"What on earth makes you assume _I_ did something?" Rip blustered.

Sara stopped by her chair and threw him a look. Rip scowled.

"Technically, ' _we_ ' did something," he corrected. "It just so happens to be _my_ name that is down as the root cause. _We_ ended the Time Masters, blew up the Vanishing Point and destroyed the only means of accurately monitoring the timeline."

"Doesn't every Time Captain have that axe to grind?" Sara persisted, sitting down by Mick and snapping the halter into place. She smiled sweetly at Amaya, sitting in the seat opposite, beside Ray, then continued. "Why should this guy be worse than the others? And if he is: why are we going after him?"

"Because Luke Johnson is a 'true believer'," explained Rip, turning his chair into its locked position. "He bought into the ideology and mission of the Time Masters at a very young age. Younger than most. He's known for his loyalty. If we can recruit him, others will follow because of it."

"You sound like you know him well," mused Sara, peering at the back of his head like sheer force of will could let her see inside his mind.

"I should," muttered Rip, closing his hand on the lever that would commence their jump. "He's my foster brother."


	6. A Time to Make Friends

The jump took them to Amiens, Picardie, in France, on the ninth of March, eighteen eighty six. Gideon guided the Waverider down into the private gardens of the bishop's palace behind the cathedral. As always, the fabricator was everyone's first stop. Everyone but two.

"No."

"Yes."

"You cannot be serious!"

"You must at least attempt to blend in with your surroundings, Sara!" Rip demanded, waving a hand at nothing in particular. "They have photography in this era, for heaven's sake!"

"There is no way on this earth or any other I am wearing that!" Sara yelled, pointing at the offending garment and storming over to him. The rest of the team had taken their outfits and vacated the small room long ago. "It completely negates the point of having me there!"

"How so?" Rip stood his ground, hands on hips, coat pushed back. "It is exactly suited to blend in with the upper middle classes of the era and city. Your arms are free to move and I can't even begin the number of places in there you could hide a weapon!"

"Oh, I could move my arms in it, sure!" Sara countered. "It's everything else I'm worried about! Maybe I should dress _you_ up in it: see how easy you find it to A, kick a five foot eleven idiot in the head, and B, breathe!"

"You wear a corset all the time when you're fighting!" Rip glared at her, the precise mention of his own height not lost on him.

"Not like that one!" Sara pointed out, standing toe to toe with the captain. "It's a whole different shape, and it comes with a bustle and hobble-skirt! Amaya's get up doesn't involve this nonsense. Why should mine?"

"Amaya is dressed as a Romani gypsy!" Rip's voice began to rise. "If she looked any more like a gypsy, and we were in Paris, she could pass for Esma-bloody-relda! _You_ cannot do the same. One of you needs to be able to walk in the front door of the house we're visiting. Amaya cannot do that. _You_ have to."

"Either that dress changes or I don't walk anywhere!" Sara demanded. "Mick can handle himself in a fight, and even Ray, suit-free, would be more use than me in that thing!"

Rip took a breath to say something, then stopped. Sara folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. He closed his eyes, shook his head and took a breath again.

"You have just spent the entire time the team was in here arguing your case to be allowed to even _go_ on this mission," he began calmly. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just call your bluff and leave you here, on the bench, as it were, for the entirety of our stay."

"Name the last time leaving me behind worked out well for you," Sara ordered, staring him down.

Rip's jaw tightened. The last few missions, all without Sara, had been unmitigated disasters. Any mission without her had been a disaster. That wasn't to say that plenty with her hadn't ended badly also, of course, but at least some of them had ended well. A few had even gone according to plan! Whether linchpin or lucky mascot, they needed Sara with them to succeed.

"Might I make a suggestion, Captain?" Gideon enquired in the ensuing silence.

"Yes!" Sara and Rip snapped together.

"I can design a more liberating style of gown based upon the aesthetic dress movement of the time, popular in London," the computer suggested, "and add an English accent to the French produced by Miss Lance's translator."

The restrictive, corseted gown of France disappeared to be replaced by a loose fitting bohemian tea gown of pale blue silk. Sara looked it over appreciatively and looked up at Rip. He rolled his eyes and gave in.

"Fine," he muttered, turning on his heel and grabbing his own bundle of newly fabricated clothes as he stalked out of the room.

Sara smirked at his receding back.

XXXX

The dress was easier to move around in, it was true, but it still took time to put on, complete with knives, jewellery and appropriate hair do. Eventually, she made her way down to the ship's exit and found Mick waiting on her.

"Hunter's in a mood," he rumbled, pushing up off the wall he had been leaning against. "Sent everyone off on their little missions and said he'd wait for you. I volunteered instead, on the condition he avoids going near this brother of his until we're all there. Just in case he needs us, of course."

"Of course," grinned Sara, glad she wouldn't have to deal with another lecture from Rip on the way to their destination. "And because you don't want to miss the show. You got the invitations?"

Mick waved two folded cards in the air and held out an arm to Sara. "Be my date for the evening, Blondie?"

She grinned up at him. "Why thank you, kind sir. I don't mind if I do."

XXXX

The room teemed with the exuberant vibrancy of life. Women, with tightly corseted waists, ridiculously sized bustles and lace-woven fans, gathered in groups to gossip. Men, wine glasses in hand, talked together in low pitched voices. Young men and women laughed and chattered together in mixed groups, full of the joie de vivre of the evening. Some isolated quartets were made up of pairs of couples, exchanging pleasantries and commenting on the weather. Garlands of fabric festooned the fragrant reception room. Bustling bouquets added their perfume to the mix, competing with the heady Parisienne perfumes of the women. Sara took one look at Mick's face and hid her own behind her fan.

"I been punched in the face before," he grumbled, "but not quite like that!"

"It is pungent," laughed Sara, fanning the worst of the competing aromas away from her face.

Professor Stein was easy to spot, his silver hair shining in the midst of the largest group. The group size was not wholly due to the professor's presence, however, but to the eminent person with whom he was conversing. The crowd cleared enough for the bearded face of Jules Verne to appear through the gaps. He was listening intently to Martin, waxing lyrical about his favourite Verne novel.

Luckily, it had already been published!

Ray was sulking in a corner, holding a silver salver carrying glasses both full and empty. He was sulking for two reasons. First and foremost, he claimed, was that he had to play staff again. Sara strongly suspected, however, that the cluster of pretty young ladies circling around a grinning Jax might have more to do with it. His drinks tray seemed much popular.

Amaya and Rip were nowhere to be seen. Amaya wasn't supposed to be in the busy room, though, but playing her gypsy role in a small curtained antechamber somewhere, telling the fortunes of silly, but pretty, young ladies. Sara recalled Ray making a predictably Ray-ish faux pas recently, and wondered how many of Amaya's fortunes warned against tall, dark, handsome waiters, and suggested shorter, dark, handsome waiters to be a more auspicious choice.

Rip _was_ supposed to be in the main room, but perhaps he was keeping out of sight until his personal fight club arrived. She wondered if he was sulking too.

A few groups were lingering in corners, gaggles of girls fluttering their eyelashes at some young beau or vice versa. They couldn't all fit round Jax. Sara watched one such group with interest. It was by far the largest, and was made up of both men and women of a variety of ages, all listening to the tales of one young swaggerer with his back to them.

Sara cast her eyes over a few of the group, admiring those whose clothes hung well on them, but with no particular interest otherwise. Her eyes kept flicking back to and over the raconteur at the focus of the group, though. She had a clear view of him, albeit only the back of him, and the niggling sense of familiarity that crept up every time she looked at him was starting to annoy her.

He waved a hand, gesturing at some aspect of the tale he was telling, and suddenly it clicked.

"Oh dear God!" Sara exclaimed, distracting Mick from the glass he had just raised to his lips. "I need to wash my eyes out!"

"What?" Mick queried, his brows knotting. "You see somethin' else you wish you hadn't?"

"Kinda," she breezed, stealing Mick's glass and downing the contents. "And something I didn't see, but should've."

"You see our glorious leader out there?" Mick asked, deftly removing another two glasses from a passing tray and handing one to Sara.

"You could say that," she replied, raising her closed fan to point over her shoulder at the group. "He's holding court over by the brunette in the saffron ball gown."

Mick peered over her shoulder. "The girl in yellow? Next to her? That's him?"

"Yup!"

"Huh," Mick mused thoughtfully. "I guess they were right."

"Who was?" Sara asked, although she was sure she already knew. "And what were they right about?"

"The Time Masters," shrugged Mick. "Back in the Chronos days. I didn't just hunt Rip in the time periods after you, _we_ , all joined him, y'know. They sent me back way before that. Not just after him neither. I'd already _made_ a name for myself by the time pre-Chronos me first heard it."

"So, what? You know lots of dirty little secrets our captain is hiding then?" Sara arched one gracefully mischievous eyebrow. "Spill!"

Mick pulled a face. "Ain't my story to tell, or my secrets to share, Blondie," he rumbled. "But I will tell you this much. The Time Masters, they filled my head with a dossier on all his strengths and weaknesses. In it, they put him top of his class for his ability to vanish into a crowd."

"He does keep telling us we need to blend in more," nodded Sara. "That sure as hell looks like blending in to me!"

"He's certainly got their attention," chortled Mick.

"He's being charming," said Sara, wrinkling her nose and raising her eyebrows. "No, worse than that: he's being _dashing_! If he were in a Robin Hood movie right now, it'd be the Errol Flynn one and he'd be Robin!"

"Don't let your pal in the green hoodie hear that," murmured Mick with a low laugh. "He'll start thinking he's got competition!"

Their conversation brought them up to the enthralled group. Sara nudged the saffron clad beauty out of the way and fixed her eyes on Rip, listening intently to the utterly untrue tale he was telling. She raised her glass to her lips and this movement caught his attention. His eyes glanced over her and away, then snapped back, making him stumble over his words and lose his thread.

"Oh, do go on," she smiled, employing a charm offensive of her own. "You were saying? Something about single handedly fighting off six men in a Russian steam room?"

The little tic was there. That slight tightening of the jaw he did when he knew he was not going to win the argument. Behind her glass, she smiled.

Rip looked around and spotted Mick, also grinning. No support there then. He looked back at his audience to find their fickle attention wandering elsewhere.

"Well, there goes _my_ camouflage," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Why, I am _so_ glad you could join us, Miss Lance!"

"You will be," she sing-songed softly. When she spoke again, though, she was businesslike and sober. "Your brother here yet?"

"He's not my brother, he's my foster brother. There's a difference," corrected Rip, sipping his own neglected drink. "We grew up in a house with dozens of other children of all ages, all coming and going throughout the years. You can't expect us all to be close."

"How close were you?" Mick enquired, filling the space left vacant by the dispersal of the crowd.

"He had the bunk above mine for six years, then he left to enter the academy," the captain shrugged. "I've seen him a few times since, but not much."

"And _is_ he here?" Sara repeated.

Rip shook his head. "No, he'd have spotted me by now if he was."

"And you'd know if he had?" Sara pressed.

"I believe so," Rip responded dryly.

"So what's our play here, boss?" Mick asked, scanning the exits, windows and entrances. "We go look for him or wait for him to find us?"

Rip considered this for a moment. "We wait," he decided. "He'll be here. And when he is, he'll find us. Me."

Sara narrowed her eyes at him at that. There was something in the way he said it: some kind of resignation. "Something you're not telling us, Rip?"

"Plenty," quipped the captain, his eyebrows flashing upwards for a moment. He sipped his wine. "Nothing you need concern yourself with."

"Rip," Sara warned, glaring at him.

"It would be impossible to tell you every single encounter I have had with Captain Johnson since I was eight years old," he pointed out. "He was a part of my daily life for six years!"

"Just the highlights then," Sara pressed, lacing her arm through his to make sure he knew he wasn't getting out of answering. "I like to know who I might have to kill."

Rip rolled his eyes and threw a weary look her way. "Let's try and avoid killing any more Time Masters. We lost enough of them, at the Vanishing Point, whose only fault was to be as blind as _I_ once was."

Sara's hand tightened on his arm, just a fraction.

"That wasn't blame, just a fact," he murmured into her ear, his voice softening. "You did what you had to do, and if you hadn't grounded those ships we would undoubtedly _all_ be dead by now."

"I know," she murmured back, her eyes fixed stubbornly on her glass. She blinked and looked up, casting her eyes over the chattering congregation.

"You showed us his picture," rumbled Mick, liberating another glass from a passing platter. "That only tells us what he looks like when he wants to be seen. What about when he doesn't? He as good at blending in as you?"

"He's a year older than me," shrugged Rip. "And he started the academy early. We were never in the same class. I did hear he was good, though. How good, I never found out first hand."

The party dragged on for the next few hours, taking it into the next day. Eventually, a few at a time, the belles and beaus began to depart.

"So much for Gideon's theories," groaned Sara, leaning back against a wall. "More like wild goose chase!"

"At least old silver top has enjoyed himself," chuckled a slightly tipsy Mick. "He's been bending the bearded fellow's ear all night!"

"That's Jules Verne, Mister Rory," muttered Rip, also leaning back against a wall. "He's partly the reason Gideon sent us here, and why I've asked Professor Stein to remain close to him for the duration of the evening. On his way home from this event, an unstable relative of his will approach and shoot him. The man fires twice, the first shot missing Verne entirely, the second hitting his leg."

"If that's your idea of an explanation," mused Sara, "I'd say it sucks."

Rip rolled his eyes again. "Gideon believes, from what she could find in the records of the man's ramblings, that the first bullet was not aimed at Verne, but at Luke. Captain Johnson."

"So we know one thing," she pointed out, turning to look at him. "Assuming Gideon's right and we know anything at all, of course. If we want to find your brother, we have to stick close to Verne all night until he turns up."

"Precisely," nodded Rip, too tired to even bother correcting the word 'brother' this time. He'd been telling stories of their childhood and early teenage years all evening at Sara and Mick's insistence. If they weren't getting it right by now it was deliberate.

"That should be hard, considering he and the professor seem to be new besties," muttered Sara. I haven't seen one of the nerd twins fanboy about a person so much since we bumped into young Einstein back in Zurich in nineteen oh four!"

"I heard that!" Ray complained over the comms.

"So?" Mick asked the scowling Ray on the far side of the room, over his own comms. He grinned when Ray's scowl turned into a grumpy grimace and he turned away, shaking his head.

On the other side of the room, Verne and Stein rose, still deep in conversation, and the waiting trio snapped to attention. Jax, now devoid of tray, brought the professor and the author their coats. At a nod from his partner, he slipped a small, unobtrusive tracking device into the writer's pocket.

Side by side, the scientist and the science fiction writer exited the building, surreptitiously followed by a giggling bohemian Englishwoman accompanied by not one but two French gentlemen. A few minutes later, the mysterious gypsy read her last fortune of the evening and excused herself, taking with her two of the waiters. As they left, a shadow detached itself from the alley next to the house and slunk along behind them. A few streets later, it disappeared.

The laughter of the charming trio walking a short distance behind Verne and his new friend filtered forward to them, interspersing their conversation with occasional interruptions that made Verne smile and comment on the accent of the lady.

"A resident of my hotel," Professor Stein informed him. "English, I believe, but well travelled. Quite the adventuress, I hear. A Mister Doyle of Edinburgh was quite taken with her, I hear, and promised to base a character on her. One who would be certain to give his Mister Holmes a run for his money."

"Mister Doyle? Holmes? These are names I have not heard," frowned the author. "Is he new to the world of fiction?"

"Quite new," blustered Martin, frowning as he tried to recollect the publication date of Conan Doyle's first work. He was sure it was somewhere around now. "Er, I-I'm sure you'll know his name in a few years time."

A trill of laughter reached the pair again.

"Quelle joie de vivre," commented Verne, "et quelle courage. For a young woman of such beauty and grace to travel such, even in this modern age. The gentleman she arrived with: he is her guardian, no?"

"Friend, more so, I believe," replied Stein. "The lady is her own guardian."

"I should very much like to hear of her travels, if you could introduce me?" Verne asked, looking at Martin hopefully. "If, of course, she has time to talk to such an old scribbler as myself. Between her friend and her beau, I am certain her time is occupied."

"Her what?" Martin blinked and looked round at the group, frowning in momentary confusion. Realisation dawned. Uncertainty followed. They had not discussed Rip's cover story they way they had Sara's. What roles were the captain and his second in command playing now?

Verne paused, looking back just as Stein opened his mouth to reply. Whatever that reply was, however, he never found out. Even as the two older men had turned, a figure had stepped out from the shadows of the street they had just passed, directly into the path of the oncoming trio. With his back to Stein and Verne, they found it impossible to make out what the newcomer said to the group. What they did make out, however, was the change in expression on Rip's face, telling them the comment had been directed at him. They also made out the look of amusement on Mick Rory's face when the stranger launched himself at Rip, landing a right hook that knocked the captain to the ground.


	7. A Time to Learn

By the time Rip got to his feet, with absolutely zero help from Mick, Sara had the attacker on his knees in an arm lock.

"Is there anyone from your past that doesn't want to punch you?" Mick chortled as the captain rubbed his jaw.

"You have three seconds to convince me not to break your arm," sighed Sara, putting just enough pressure on the man's arm to convince him the threat was not an empty one. She looked wearily at her glorious leader, dusting himself off from landing flat on his ass on the sidewalk. "And _you_ need to stop letting people hit you."

"I don't _let_ people hit me!" Rip complained. "They just _do_!"

"Then I'll be seeing _you_ tomorrow morning in the sparring room," smiled Sara, raising an eyebrow at him. "Somebody needs to teach you how to defend yourself properly."

"I've managed fine so far!"

"He says to the woman holding down the guy who just floored him," she retorted. Turning her gaze back to the 'guy' in question, her brows dropped and her voice grew menacing once more. "You: speak."

"This is nothing to do with you or the rest of your little gang of interfering busybodies," spat the kneeling man. He was dressed in a waiter's costume identical to Jax and Ray's. "This is between me and Michael."

"Guess we've found our missing Time Captain, then," said Mick, leaning back against a wall and folding his arms. "This should be good."

"Let him up, Sara," ordered Rip, watching the man carefully as she did so and he rose, brushing wavy blond hair out of his eyes. "It's good to see you, Luke. I trust you are well?"

"Well?" Luke retorted, his voice rising in stunned disbelief. "Well? You destroy the very organisation we both served, that we both _swore_ our _lives_ to, _and_ you take _her_ down with you, and you have the audacity to ask me if I'm _well_?"

"Her?" Sara enquired, looking expectantly at Rip.

"Miranda's death was engineered by the Council themselves, Luke," said Rip, a tremor barely audible in his voice. "They were using the Oculus to control _all_ of us. They used her death to manipulate me. They killed my son _just_ to manipulate me. What would you have done in my place?"

"I would have saved her!" Luke shot back. Pushing the slighter man until he staggered backwards.

Rip held up a hand to Sara, who had moved towards Luke the instant he stepped forward. "I tried. Believe me, I tried. If there was any way it could have been done, I would have found it. There wasn't. I couldn't save them, no matter what I did, so I, and my friends, wiped out everyone involved in their deaths."

"You forgot one," growled the enraged man, pushing Rip back again and following to stand nose to nose with him. "How dare you stand there, alive. Happy. Laughing. Would she be dead if not for you?"

"You think she would still be alive if she had chosen you?" Rip asked him, refusing to back down. By his side, Mick and Sara exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised.

"I would have made _sure_ nobody knew about us if she'd chosen me!" Luke countered. "You two were the worst kept secret in the academy!"

"Don't kid yourself, Luke," scoffed Rip, bitterness creeping in to his words like frost across a window. "They could see everything! Control anything! If she'd chosen you, it would just be you standing here, going through this _hell_ instead of me."

"That's the first time I've heard hell described as an evening of drinking and laughing with beautiful women," he snorted. "I was watching you all night! Gathering them round you and spinning your tales. At least until your little guard dog showed up and chased them all off. None of them dared go near you once _she_ turned up! I guess they know a lost cause when they see one."

"I don't like what you're insinuating," hissed Rip, his face darkening.

"To say I'm insinuating something suggests I'm not making myself clear," sneered Luke, peering down his nose at his foster brother. "Let me clarify, then. Your wife, the woman we both loved, and your son are both dead. You are the reason they are dead. You should be dead a dozen times over for what you brought them to. Instead, here you are: living the high life with a woman who seems to me to be far closer to you than propriety would allow."

"Propriety?" Rip blinked, his brows drawing down. Anger beginning to build on his features. "Propriety be damned! I don't have to answer to you, or anyone! Not for my choice of friends or anything else! And there is nothing, _nothing_ , more than friendship between myself and Miss Lance!"

Stein and Verne had remained distant, watching the encounter from afar, but Ray, Jax and Amaya chose that moment to turn into the street. At the sight of the encounter in front of them, and of the writer and the professor beyond, they froze.

"Come back with us," suggested Sara, searching for a way to diffuse the situation before Verne got involved. "Let Gideon confirm everything he's saying."

"I find it interesting that you are not offering to do so yourself," snarled Luke, turning on her.

"You don't know me," shrugged Sara. "Why should you believe me? Gideon on the other hand..."

Luke nodded. "That's true enough. What about you, Rip? Are you willing to let me quiz your AI about this?"

"Gideon is at your disposal," replied Rip, with a slight bow and an irritable wave of his hand. Miss Lance, perhaps you and Mister Rory could accompany Monsieur Verne and Professor Stein to his home, then return the professor to the ship. Use force to pry him away if you have to. I believe my foster brother and I need some time to... reconnect."

"And if he tries to kill you again?" Mick queried.

"I won't," assured Luke, hands raised in surrender. "Besides, I see the rest of your personal army awaiting you over there."

Rip's eyes followed the direction of Luke's nod. He spotted the rest of the team, hanging back at the last turning.

"Yes, I think I will be quite safe," he nodded. "Monsieur Verne on the other hand..."

Mick nodded. "Understood."

Sara watched him go, then looked back to Rip. He raised his eyebrows at her and she nodded, turning to follow Mick.

"I swear, Rip," she heard Luke say as she moved away. "If I find out you gave up on Miranda for..."

She heard the smack of a fist making impact. She heard someone hit the sidewalk with a thump. She did not need to turn around to know what happened.

"If you ever," she heard Rip's shaking voice intone. "If you _ever_ suggest I ' _gave up_ ' on my _wife_ and _son_ again, you won't find yourself sprawled on the pavement. You'll find yourself waking up in a medical bay or hospital bed!"

XXXX

Sara, Mick and Stein returned to the Waverider some hours later, Mick with his left arm bound up in a sling.

"Guess we know who the second bullet was aimed at," remarked Ray, his brow creasing only slightly at the sight. "Is Verne okay?"

"Gee, thanks for the concern, Haircut!" Mick rumbled. "You do realise this means no pancakes for you for at least a week. In fact, I vote you get _all_ my kitchen duty!"

"He'll be fine," reported Sara, shepherding Mick in the direction of the medbay. "Everything panned out according to history, more or less."

"More or less?" Rip looked out of his office and caught her gaze.

Sara sighed and folded her arms, letting Martin lead the wounded ex-con away. "Well, the shooter is now babbling about these _three_ other people who were there instead of one, but he's crazy anyway and Verne doesn't seem to think he'll have any problem convincing the gendarmes that he was on his own."

The captain apparently found this acceptable, because he nodded and ducked back into his office without a word. Sara looked at Ray, shrugged and followed Mick and Stein.

"Say I accept everything you and Gideon have told me," said Luke from his seat in Rip's favourite armchair when the other captain returned. "What do I do about it? The Council is gone. The Oculus is gone. We have no way of knowing what is going on in the timestream until our respective computers detect a change in the historical records. We can't police the timeline effectively if we don't know what's happening until it's happened. We risk a paradox. Multiple paradoxes!"

"The Vanishing Point still exists, and so does the wellspring," shrugged Rip, refilling the whisky glass in Luke's hand. "Just because the buildings that harnessed them are gone, doesn't mean they are. It'll take time, but we can rebuild. Start again. Do things right this time. The Time Council was corrupt, but the idea they represented wasn't."

Luke sipped the Scotch thoughtfully. "And you want me to help you rebuild it?"

Rip nodded, leaning back against his desk. "I want you to _lead_ the rebuilding. I can't think of _anyone_ who believed in the idea of the Time Masters more than you, Luke. The good, honourable, true idea of what they stood for. What we all stood for. I still have work to do: finding the other surviving captains, deciding who can be trusted and who can't. I need my team for that. And I need someone I _trust_ at the wellspring, rebuilding. I believe that someone is you."

Luke considered this. "I've given you no reason to trust me."

"Not in regards to my own personal safety, perhaps," shrugged Rip. "But I trust your belief in the cause. I trust your sense of honour and justice. And I trust your feelings for Miranda. She always said the world needs the Time Masters. I don't believe you would let her down."

Luke's gaze hardened for a moment, before he finally acknowledged the truth of this with a nod. "Okay, we'll play it your way. I'll take the Endeavour back to the Vanishing Point and see what I can salvage. I can't do this alone though."

"Start with whatever you can rebuild of the wellspring," suggested Rip, pulling up an image of the remains of the Vanishing Point on a nearby monitor and zooming in on the wreck of the wellspring. "Once we can harness that again, it will make things easier. I'll send you what help I can find. If they'll join us."

"They'll join," said Luke quietly, looking down into the depths of his glass. "Have Gideon show them what she showed me and they'll join."

XXXX

Leonard looked out at the rolling vista below him. Things were getting easier. He had jumped three times since meeting Rip, and all he had had to show for each one was a moment of dizziness before, and a slight headache after, the event. The early humans he had left behind were evolving before his eyes as he passed from one portion of the Stone Age to another, jumping ever forward in time. He sat down on the rock he had climbed and closed his eyes. He was getting a handle on this. The improvements the people around him were making every time he jumped told him his direction. He was going forwards. So far, he hadn't jumped backwards. Didn't mean he wouldn't, but at least it looked like whatever the hell had happened to him had some idea of where it was taking him. He'd worked out the jump pattern too. The day and a half in the grassland, followed by three days in the very early Stone Age, then followed by six days in the slightly less early Stone Age, where cooking food was mercifully now the norm, had given him a clue. When he landed in an era, still using stone and bone tools, but now also wearing clothes, he decided to start making predictions. He took note of the sun's position, working out the time with a crude sundial and guesswork. The last jump had been approximately six days and maybe and hour and a half or just over. He set his mental countdown to twelve days, three hours and change. He had been right.

When he arrived in this new era, still Stone Age and, damn, _that_ was boring, he made the same calculations and predictions, then headed for the nearest accumulation of greenery in search of water. Where there was water, there was often people. 

He had found the people, clothed and hunting. Both males and females were hunting here, he noticed. They carried spears, and had basic leather bags slung over a shoulder. Their kills hung over their shoulders too, and an assortment of plants and fungi filled the bags. He had found them, just a few of them, by the river, trying to spear some fish with varying levels of success. Then he had turned up, walking so quiet and catlike that they thought he had appeared out of thin air. One of them even fell into the river itself and had to be hauled out by his comrades. They had accepted him, however, once he had presented them with the gifts he had arranged to carry with him. Food always worked well.

Now he was revered as some kind of god or benevolent demon once again. He had the freedom to do as he wished. He had as much food as he desired. Gifts were brought to him by various males and females of the tribe, of all ages. He had even taught them a few tricks for the fishing. That would be another little hook for Hunter to follow. He had been there just over three weeks, and he was on his last day with the tribe. Every morning he had climbed the rock, looked out and then closed his eyes and remembered. Remembered his sister. Remembered his brother in arms. Remembered his team. His friends. His home.

Remembered Sara.

No matter how fuzzy the other images became - and some were starting to fade, he knew - her face, her eyes, her smile, her glare, everything about her was still clear to him. As clear as if he had last seen her just yesterday. And he would keep it that way even if it meant losing everything else.

XXXX

"Gideon, is Rip awake yet?" Sara asked the ceiling as she pulled on her training clothes.

"Captain Hunter is still asleep," reported the AI. "He is not in deep or rapid eye movement sleep, though, and I believe waking him would prove unproblematic."

"Wake him, tell him to get his ass down to the sparring room and wear something suitable," she grinned wickedly, "since he'll probably be landing on it a few times."

"I will pass on the message, Miss Lance," affirmed Gideon.

It took all of ten minutes for the captain to join her in the emptiest of the re-appropriated store rooms.

"I didn't think you were _actually_ serious, Miss Lance," he yawned, wandering in with dragging feet. "I'm still half asleep!"

Sara looked him over. It wasn't exactly the most matching set of gym wear she'd seen but it was loose enough. He would do. "This'll wake you up," she grinned.

"Or kill me!" Rip muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"You need to learn to block a punch," Sara told him, folding her arms and watching him try to stop his brain going back to sleep.

"I _can_ block!" Rip complained. "When I have to."

"You can," she nodded, "when you know someone's gonna go for you and where. You're good at reading them too, in a fight. But if every one of your buddies out there takes a shot at you the way your brother..."

"Foster brother."

"... did then you're gonna end up with a split skull or brain damage or something. And you really need to stop letting people hit you because you think they deserve to, so don't even try that excuse. You brought me into this for my fighting skills. You got me to train Kendra. You let me start training Jax and Ray. Mick's happy to drop by any time he wants a sparring partner. Even Martin has asked for a few tips, and suggested I start a yoga class! They all want to get better at what they do. Give me one good reason why you shouldn't try to improve too?"

"Um..." Rip fumbled for words, still trying to get his sleep addled brain in gear. "Can't I at least have some caffeine first?"

Sara grinned. "Nope."


	8. A Time to Look Back

Leonard spat sand out of his mouth and groaned. He pushed himself up and looked around him. Where had he landed this time? The land around him shone silver, reflecting the light of a full moon the way only sand can. Oh joy: a desert! For the first time, he had landed somewhere without trees. He pushed himself to his feet, shaking the sand off his clothes and pulling his jacket closer around him. The air was cold. Bitterly cold. He picked up his leather bag, this one a much more sophisticated version than his first. For a start, the hide had actually been cleaned and tanned. It was also bigger. He planned ahead these days, now he knew what to plan for and when. When the day of his departure from an era arrived, he put on his twenty first century clothes, packed his bag with as much food, water and whatever else may pass for currency as it could hold, and said his goodbyes. It had been enough to get him started every time so far.

But this was his first desert.

He fished out one of two water skins, untying the stopper carefully and rinsing his mouth out with the least water necessary. He would have to be careful with it. Maybe there would be an oasis over the next dune. Maybe there would just be more desert. He seemed to be in a depression, with great hummocks of sand rising on all four sides of him and no indication which might lead to the closest settlement. They would be farmers by now, that much he knew. Water was still the focus for any settlement. A river, preferably. But a river in the desert? He could only think of one place on earth where a desert, a sea of sand, was broken by a river. At least, off the top of his head. He shivered and started walking, heading for the tallest of dunes in the hope that it would give him a view over all the others, and some clue which direction might actually allow him to survive.

XXXX

"Did you really have to push me into those crates, this morning?" Rip grumbled, rubbing his neck. "I swear I'm still recovering from that headlock too!"

"You'd have got worse than a few bruises and aching muscles if I'd been one of the bad guys," Sara smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes.

They were standing on the bridge, looking down at the holotable from opposite sides, watching Gideon's projection of the remains of the Time Council's base at the Vanishing Point. It would still be hours before they got there, following the Endeavour through the timestream, and the rest of the team had disappeared into the depths of the ship, doing whatever they do when timestream journeys take longer than a day and they're too awake to just sleep through it. Normally Sara would be with them, training or sparring, or sometimes playing guinea pig for one of Mick's latest experiments in the kitchen. This time she had elected to remain on the bridge, peering down silently at the tangled wreaths of metal and futuristic fibres she couldn't even begin to imagine. The captain's mind went back to their conversation in France, and he wondered if she were looking for anything in particular. If she were looking for the ships. Or the bodies.

"You're not okay with this, are you?" Rip asked, although to Sara's ears it sounded much more like a statement of fact.

"I'll be fine," she shrugged. "Had to happen sometime."

He watched her, cataloguing the tiny changes in her expressions, so small they would be missed by a less observant party. "You're not okay," he repeated gently. "I'm sorry. I should have gone with Luke alone."

"You said it yourself," sighed Sara, leaning back against the holotable to look out the window, hiding her face from him. "The Vanishing Point is still there, waiting to be rebuilt, and who knows what an enterprising Space Pirate might find amongst the wreckage."

Rip nodded. He had made this call for a clear set of reasons. Sara understood those reasons. She would even have made the same call herself, he thought. That didn't mean she would be happy about it though. He wasn't. How could she possibly be? "You don't have to see it," he offered. "The real thing, that is. Luke has the Endeavour, and Gene. I have the Waverider and Gideon. We have a jump ship each, which Mister Jefferson and Mister Rory are perfectly capable of piloting. That's four ships searching the remains and salvaging what we can. It's also four sets of eyes on the look out for any kind of trouble. If Doctor Palmer joins Mister Rory on the Endeavour's jump ship, and Professor Stein joins Mister Jefferson on ours, Madame Jiwe can join Captain Johnson on the Endeavour and I will be perfectly fine here."

"With me," Sara finished with a tip of her head. "You know there's not enough of us to make four teams without me. Not any more."

He winced at that. "Yes, but if you were here," he murmured, "at least you'd be somewhere you could stay clear of it all if you needed to. I'd only call on you if we were attacked, I swear."

She was silent for a long time, watching the kaleidoscopic colours of the timestream slipping by. "Okay," she said at last, turning back to face him once more. "We pair up like you say. But I'm staying right here, or wherever else I'm needed. I'm not gonna hide from this. This is my mess. I have to face it."

"This _mess_ isn't just yours, Sara," said Rip, straightening up from the table. "We all had a hand in it. We all participated. And don't forget: I'm the one that gave the order. I'm the one that decided we should destroy the Oculus. I'm the one who left Mick holding that pin."

"Don't," she warned, holding up a finger. "That was their choices, not yours. Ray chose to stay. Mick chose to knock Ray out and take his place. If you had done the same, who would have carried Mick and Ray out of there? And Leonard..."

Rip heard the choke in her voice, watched her eyes close as she looked away. He hated himself for everything he had put her, and the rest of the team, through. "I'm sorry."

"He knew what he was doing. He made his choice," she managed, without looking back.

"I still regret it was a choice he had to make," stated Rip, keeping his eyes on her, even if Sara wouldn't meet them. Eventually, she did.

"I know," she breathed, her voice lacking its usual confidence and stability. "But you didn't know it would come to that, and you have to stop blaming yourself."

"I will if you will," he quipped, the corner of his mouth trying to curl into a light-hearted smile. It didn't work. They both knew there was nothing light-hearted about the chaos they had left behind them. The chaos they would soon have to face.

"I never stopped to read the names," Sara murmured, frowning into the middle distance, her mind slipping back to that final battle to rid the universe of its controllers. "The names on the ships I, _we_ , electronically scuppered. I never even bothered to take note of them. I didn't even look for the Acheron. Did I condemn a friend, Rip? When we stopped those ships leaving, was the Acheron among them?"

Rip sighed and looked down at the holotable. "Gideon?"

"I did not detect the Acheron's presence at the Vanishing Point, Captain," replied the computer. "I do, as you know, have a full list of all ships lost and their captains, if you wish to view it."

"As you know?" Sara repeated, frowning at Rip.

"Do you _honestly_ think I hadn't checked already?" Rip asked, raising his eyebrows at her. "You knew one other Time Captain. I spent my _life_ among them. I knew every name on that list, some better than others it's true, but I still knew them."

"I'm sorry," she stated, looking down at the table between them.

"Don't be," he told her. "You did what you had to do. And you didn't know things would pan out the way they did. You couldn't have know."

Sara closed her eyes and leant hard against the table top. She breathed in deeply, and shakily, then looked at the ragged carcass of the Vanishing Point base displayed below her.

"What's your plan for here?" Sara enquired, calmly, focussing on the task ahead. Ignoring the events that had led to it.

Rip watched her for a moment, then decided not to press his case further. There was nothing left to say anyway. Either she would listen, and hear him, or she wouldn't. That was up to Sara now, and nothing he could, or would, do might change that. He looked down again at the holotable and pointed to the estimated centre of the blast.

"That is the former site of the Oculus," he began, laying out his plans as devoid of emotion as the table itself. "That is, therefore, where we will find the wellspring. Without the Oculus to focus it, it will be flowing freely in the space around there. We should avoid crossing it, where possible. It could lead to... interesting complications."

"Meaning?"

"When the Time Council held us captive, I was taken to the council's own viewing platform," Rip explained, without looking up, "I was shown how they had manipulated us. Me. How our actions, my actions, had given Savage everything he needed to rise to power. I saw the future they were creating. I saw Ray Palmer's death. I saw everything."

"Everything?" Sara raised an eyebrow, watching the captain closely. "Ray isn't dead. It didn't go down that way. Mick, and Leonard: they changed his future in a big way. Who says we can't change the rest of it?"

"Miss Lance, I hardly think Doctor Palmer's near death experience will prevent the oncoming alien onslaught," Rip sighed.

"Really?" Sara folded her arms and stepped round the table until she was barely a foot away. She waited for him to turn and face her. When he did, there was a sullen darkness in his gaze. "In this future they showed you, where were you? Because this thing between you and Savage was only ever gonna end in one of two ways: either he kills you or you kill him. In this future, where Savage is the only man they think capable of uniting the world against this threat, where are _you_? Because you bluster and you lie and you manipulate anyone and _everyone_ you can, but you do it for the right reasons. And you're good at it. You pulled us together, heroes and villains alike, and you made a team. You made a team strong enough to take down an immortal! If you can do that..."

"I'm not some great leader, Sara," Rip scoffed, turning away. "I'm not even a very good one!"

He jumped when a slim, porcelain hand reached out and turned his face back towards the woman at his side.

"You're better than you think," she whispered, catching his green eyes with her pale blue. Stretching up, she kissed his cheek, then turned and walked away.

Rip stared at nothing for a moment, still slightly in shock at the contact. Finally he shook his head and looked back at the projections on the holotable.

"God, I hope so."

XXXX

The sight of ebony shadows, even to a hardened criminal, had never been more welcome than they were to Leonard in that moment. He had climbed the dunes, but found no clues to help him choose his way. He had looked at the stars and guessed a direction, walking steadily all night with no sign that he had anything more than miles of sand ahead of him. Finally, the jagged shaped of rocks broke through the velvet silver of the sands. He had climbed the tallest of them and looked down into a precipitous canyon. It had taken him at least four times as long to walk around until he found a slope shallow enough to chance in the pale moonlight, but, as much faster as an immediate descent might have been, the long route was by far the safer one.

He had followed the canyon as it widened, reasoning that all canyons were simply dried up riverbeds, and all riverbeds led to a main waterway eventually, dried up or not. It had taken him the rest of the night, but finally his reasoning had been borne out. The dark shadows of cultivation bled over the silver sands, and beyond, sparkling like it was filled with jewels, lay a river.

On either side of him, the canyon walls rose high, dropping sharply again just before the start of the cultivated land. He paused, considering his next move, and the indigo blue of the sky above began to lighten. Looking up, and round, he saw the unmistakable signs of sunrise, directly behind him. A voice cried out in the wilderness. Leonard Snart looked round and wondered which people he was going to be a god to this time.


	9. A Time to Remember

Leonard's eyes snapped open, focussing immediately on the stone ceiling above him. He winced at the light filling the bright stone room, but refused to close his eyes again. There had been something. He listened. There it was again. A tiny little noise anyone who hadn't spent their entire life on high alert might not have heard. His head snapped round in the direction of the sound. The attendant froze, terror written on his features. Leonard sat up and swung his legs out of the bed. The attendant backed off and dropped to his knees. The young man was visibly shaking now.

"Get up," Leonard ordered. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The man immediately obeyed. Apparently his translation system didn't even need Gideon for this era. Interesting.

"M-Meryatum, my lord, and I attend to do your bidding," stammered the young man. He rose to his feet, but remained with his gaze fixed on the floor.

"My bidding?" Leonard considered. "Okay. My first command of the day: bring me something suitable to wear. My second: tell me everything you know of the history, current politics and religions of this place. Consider it a test."

XXXX

The Waverider dropped out the timestream with a jolt. In the larger training room, Sara put out a hand to steady herself.

"My apologies, everyone," reported Gideon, sounding as cheerful and unconcerned as ever. "It was necessary to slow the ship rapidly upon leaving the timestream. It appears the debris of the Vanishing Point base has travelled further than anticipated."

Sara didn't bother leaving her staff. She had changed into her White Canary gear an hour ago, and the bo was a part of that outfit. She made her way through the corridors to the bridge, only to find everyone else there before her.

"What's it look like?" Sara asked, looking at the captain hanging over the far side of the holotable.

"Gideon, three D projection if you will," ordered Rip, without a second glance at the assassin. "Start at the centre and zoom out."

The blank screen above the holotable shimmered into life. For a moment it seemed as if nothing was happening, then bent and buckled shards of metal encroached on the edges of the unblemished view. As the first fragments shrunk towards the centre, others appeared , larger, more intact. A panel would float into sight, sometimes a scrap of lettering still visible. Rip glanced at Sara, watching her eyes flit from one numbered panel to the next, then his gaze switched to the rest of his crew.

Amaya was the only person around the holographic display to seem unmoved by its contents. Ray, as always, was the easiest to read, shock and horror playing openly across his features. Jax had a similar expression, as did the professor, but Stein's face held more sadness than surprise. Mick, never the most open of books these days, was even more shut down than usual. His jaw was set, his eyes were dark, their fire banked. Rip could only recall seeing him this closed off once before: when he was Chronos.

The scene in the hologram now had stretched out beyond the original perimeter of the base. Broken buildings twisted in the void moving, slowly, outward from their individual blast points. Finally, the edge of the Endeavour came into view, hanging off their port bow, and the movement of the projection ceased. The movement within it did not.

Rip scrutinised the view before him. Something was off. Something that explained the difference between this and the predicted version Gideon had previously produced. It was something so obvious that the back of his brain itched with frustration. If only he could just put his finger on it.

Professor Stein beat him to it.

"Gideon," intoned Martin, leaning in to point our a specific spot in the image. Can you regress the debris here to show what _had_ been present at this point?"

The hologram froze and several items were highlighted in red. The highlighted items began a backwards trajectory, tumbling back into place. Slowly, like a stranger emerging from the fog of a Dickensian London street, a recognisable shape formed. It was the Acheron.

XXXX

Leonard Snart gazed down into the pillared courtyard below. It had been an informative morning. His new friend, Meryatum, had disgorged enough information to make him feel like his brain was melting. But maybe that was just the heat. Admittedly, he would have been cooler in either of the first two costumes his new valet had presented to him, but the first had been little more than a linen kilt and golden collar, and the second had been so sheer the scars he was hiding would have shown through regardless.

A lot of the information the young man had shovelled into Leonard's mind had been old hat. The crook had cased enough antiquities exhibitions to know the importance of the major deities and various personages that filled this era, now that he knew roughly where and when he was, of course. And he had a very clear idea of the 'when'. One name in Meryatum's litany had caught his attention, another had confirmed his suspicions. The first had been the name of one of the young acolyte's brothers, a half-brother really, born of a wife of higher status. A pharaoh's wife of higher status. That little snippet had been interesting. Not only did Leonard Snart now have a prince for a personal servant, but he had the ear of young Prince Khufu's big brother. The second name had been that of one of the lower priests of the temple he was now residing in: a rising star known as Hath-Set. It was notable to Leonard that the name Chay-Ara had not been mentioned.

He turned away from the balcony and stepped back into the shade of the room, picking up a piece of fruit from the platter his princely PA had provided and passing it from hand to hand. So here he was, years, it seemed, before the personal drama of three people started a chain of events that would ricochet through the ages, leading to the slaughtering of thousands, the deaths of Hunter's family and, in turn, landing him here.

And here he was.

Revered.

Holding the power to change everything in the palm of his hand.

If the high priestess wasn't Chay-Ara, if Khufu was still a boy and Hath-Set still just a priest, then the immortality that protected Savage had not yet taken hold. The three may not even have met. Yet. What would change if they never did? The meteors would still fall, erasing this unrecorded pharaoh and his entourage. Would the power they bestowed on the hawks and Savage fall to another? Or would it still fall to the same three regardless, dooming them to play out the fateful love triangle time and time again? How many lifetimes would it take them to work out which of the two men was destined to be Chay-Ara's soulmate? Would interference on his part, so far ahead of the critical events that shaped their intertwining futures, have any lasting impact at all? Would the puppet masters of the Vanishing Point not simply send another of their good little lapdogs to set their plan straight once he left? Or had their destruction at his hands in the future meant that such new interference was now impossible for them? Would it be 'new' interference? It would have to be, surely. They had foreseen Palmer's death, not his. Palmer was a boy scout, not a survivor. There had been plenty of times Leonard could think of when nothing but his cold, hard, calculating mind had saved him. Would the Boy Scout have made it this far? Even if Palmer had ended up here, standing where he was now, there was no guarantee the squeaky clean scientist would make the same choices as the crime-blackened crook. Hell, it wasn't even _remotely_ likely!

Of course, he mused, picking his way to the other side of the spacious chamber, there was one way he could make sure they didn't, couldn't, clean up his mess. It was certainly one the Boy Scout wouldn't have picked.

The balcony on this side of the room opened out above the front of the temple, resting on top of the wide colonnade that formed its facade. A stream of people of all classes, some walking, some carried, some sandalled and in shining white linen, others barefoot and in the heavier brown rags of the peasant class, all made their way towards the temple. They were here for him: for the messenger of Horus. Meryatum had informed him of the growing crowd. It was now spilling out into the paved forecourt of the temple. The sun was high overhead, due south if he was any judge, and it would soon be the hottest part of the day. The sharp cry of a child brought his attention to a spot almost directly below him. A dust-covered urchin had been dragged to her feet by a temple guard. The child twisted out of the guard's grip and turned to run, but was blocked by an unfriendly crowd. The short, many-tailed lash of the guard whipped across the child's back, causing a scream that brought back far too many memories for Snart. The guard lay unconscious before Leonard even realised the fruit had left his grip. In terror and, perhaps, not a little awe, the crowd moved back, forming a space around the fallen guard and the shaking child. All heads turned upward. The midday sun glinted off his golden pectoral and headdress. As one, the crowd fell to their knees.

And Leonard Snart smirked.

XXXX

"You told me it wasn't there!" Sara's sharp tones cut through the now unmistakable image before them. "You had Gideon tell me..."

"The Acheron was not present at the time of the explosion caused by the destruction of the Oculus, Miss Lance," responded Gideon, while Rip was still staring, hollow-eyed, at the remains of the only other friendly vessel in their universe.

"Gideon, we're looking right at it!" Sara shot back, irritation replacing remorse.

"I assure you, Miss Lance," began the AI, "I am fully cognisant of the results of my calculations. More so, if I may, than you are."

"Explain!" Sara ordered, folding her arms and glaring at the ceiling.

"I believe my explanation would be better understood in a visual format," replied the computer.

Sara blinked, frowning for a second before Rip broke the uneasy silence. "Show us then."

The holotable image reset to show the Vanishing Point, its base whole and undamaged. In the centre of the view, a pulse of blue light shot outward in a ring, while columns of a similar hue broke up and down through the centre of the module. Seconds later, it exploded, creating a fiery chain reaction through the adjoining modules and their neighbours. When the last chaotic crescendo had died away, the remnants began floating outward, with nothing in their way to present an opposing force, on the start of their unending journey to infinity.

After half a minute of this, the movement suddenly accelerated. When Gideon resumed normal speed once more the remains of the base were almost unrecognisable. A moment later, the Acheron jumped into view, drawing to a halt even as they had. It began navigating cautiously through the wreckage.

Approximately two minutes later, another vessel appeared on the scene, its outline much fuzzier and details less certain than those of the Acheron. It fired on the timeship, disabling its offensive capabilities with a single, simultaneous, volley of shots. The barrage rocked the ship, bringing it into collision with one of the larger pieces of debris and damaging it further. Another volley took out propulsion systems. A jump ship was deployed, docked and, after a short interval of time, detached. The Acheron's jump ship was also released. Both disappeared into the hazy mass of the unidentified vessel. The vessel jumped away. Seconds later, the Acheron exploded.

"Was Captain Baxter on board when the Acheron met its end?" Rip asked, his eyes now fixed on the table itself.

"Unknown, Captain," answered Gideon. "I am only able to piece together information from the movement patterns of the debris."

"How'd you know the other ship was there then?" Jax cut in, his brows drawn together, brow wrinkling. "It didn't leave any debris."

"The presence and shape of the attacking vessel was extrapolated from the deflections of debris from its shields and the effects of its attack upon the Acheron," explained the AI happily.

Stein sensed his partner's confusion. "She means she could work out where the second ship was by its impact on the things around it. Like how we worked out that Mr Allen was behind those April Fools pranks last year at Star Labs. We never saw him change anything, but things moved too far and too fast to be the result of one of Mister Ramone's hijinks, or anyone else's for that matter!"

Jax nodded, just a tiny nod of acknowledgement, without looking round. His eyes were also fixed on the floating remains of the Acheron.

"We have to assume Captain Baxter is alive," pointed out Ray, waving a hand at the projection. "They went over there for something. They took the jump ship, but that can't be all. We have to assume they took the Captain with it."

"I admire your optimism, Doctor Palmer, I really do," said Rip, his gaze focussed once more on the Acheron's remains, "but I fear they would have no reason to keep Captain Baxter alive. This was a clean hit. They disabled the ship, boarded it and left with an alacrity that can only suggest complete success on their part, or utter failure."

"Why failure?" Ray frowned.

"I can only assume the Acheron was destroyed by one of two things," shrugged Rip. "Either the attackers got what they came for and placed some kind of explosive device on board to cover their tracks, or they boarded the Acheron to find its self-destruct sequence already in play and beat a hasty retreat. In neither situation do I see Captain Baxter surviving. If the former, they would not possibly have taken so little time on board had she been able to resist them. If the latter, she would have cancelled the countdown when they left. She had the time."

"Not able to resist doesn't mean dead," Sara pointed out. "She wasn't exactly able to resist them the last time, but she was still alive when you got there."

"Yes, but she gave them a damn good run for their money first!" Rip countered. "They were there and gone far too quickly this time for a prolonged fire fight."

"And if the damage to the ship knocked her out?" Sara prompted. "You saw the beating it took before they docked."

"Why would they bother to burden themselves with a captive?" Rip queried, looking up from the display for the first time in the discussion. "They surely cannot be expecting the Time Masters to come to her rescue! They saw the destruction surrounding them!"

"Why not?" Sara shrugged. "They did the last time. And that wasn't any poncey delegation from the Vanishing Point."

Rip narrowed his eyes at her. "We were drawn in by an emergency beacon. They can hardly expect an explosion hidden in the midst of a crowd of explosions to be noticed!"

"The ' _infamous_ ' Rip Hunter noticed it," pointed out Mick, chipping in on Sara's side as always. "Well you did, didn't you?"

"And the Professor," nodded Sara. "What about your brother? Has he?"

Rip sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned and leant back against the holotable. Sara was sure she heard him mutter "foster bother" under his breath as she rounded the table to face him. She folded her arms and glared. Rip looked up and glared back, adding a scowl on top just for good measure. Mick and Ray appeared behind Sara and the captain sighed and rolled his eyes. When Vixen came into view, he caved.

"Et tu Amaya?" Rip grumbled.

"If there is the slightest chance that this ally is alive, we have no choice but to act," Amaya pointed out, holding her ground despite its unusual position. "If it had been one of us on that ship, what would you do?"

"I second the lady," commented Martin from his place behind the table, out of Rip's eye line.

"Count me in too," added Jax.

Rip's jaw tightened, and Sara smiled.

"Gideon, put me, _us_ , through to Captain Johnson," sighed the beleaguered Captain Hunter.

"Captain Johnson is waiting to speak with _you_ , Captain," replied Gideon. "I informed him that you were engaged in a team briefing and confirmed the findings of his AI."

"Very well," retorted Rip, turning round again and wondering who was briefing whom, "put _him_ through to _us_!"


	10. A Time to Consider

Luke Johnson's face appeared in the monitor, looking thoughtful. He noticed the change in the screen before him and looked up. "Rip, finally! I believe you have made the same discovery as I. I called as soon as Gene and I worked it out, but your AI said there was a briefing taking place."

"Explain to me again why Time Masters are so determined to work alone?" Sara quipped, rolling her eyes and moving out of Rip's way.

"Ah, your guard dog, I believe," grinned Luke. "I didn't recognise you from a safe distance."

Sara ignored the 'that's debatable' she heard Rip mutter at Luke's first comment to turn on the latter at his second. "Aw, there's no such thing," she smiled sweetly. "You just get a head start on the chase."

"And I'm sure I'll require every second of it," grinned Johnson.

""Yes, be that as it may," interrupted Rip, raising a hand to cut in, "we came back here expecting to be attacked, not to find our enemies had beaten us to it, Obviously, we now have a choice to make."

"Indeed, agreed Luke, his eyes still on the woman in white. "It is possible that Captain Baxter survived the attack on the Acheron and is in need of rescuing. According to Gene's, and Gideon's or course, findings, I do not believe a single ship should undertake this mission."

"On the other hand," Rip continued, "the reason for our return here is still valid. Rebuilding the Oculus, now more than ever, even simply as a viewing point, will help us immensely."

"After this length of time, I don't see how we could find Captain Baxter without it," nodded Luke.

"If I may, Captains, interrupted Professor Stein from the holotable. "I do not believe tracking down Captain Baxter will be quite the Herculean labour you seem to expect."

Rip turned to face the Martin, the rest of the team doing likewise. "How so, Professor?

"Well," began Stein, entering what both his better half and his younger half called his university lecturer mode, " _I_ believe that the antagonists in this situation were not merely Time Pirates, looking for plunder. They showed up, whoever _they_ are, right after the Acheron, only attacked the Acheron, and left immediately after returning to their vessel. They made no attempt to salvage, or further destroy, the remains of the Vanishing Point. They were not here for that. They were here specifically for the Acheron. If we can identify the reason for _that_ , perhaps we can use it to extrapolate their next move. Is there any reason either of you gentlemen can think of for such a targeted attack? Other than the specific capture of Captain Baxter?"

Luke and Rip shared a glance, each shrugging and shaking their head.

"The time drive and its data, perhaps," suggested Rip. "But that isn't specific to the Acheron, merely the Time Masters."

"Would there be anything unique about the data held in the Acheron?" Stein pressed.

"Not that I can think of," frowned Rip, running a hand through his hair. "It was perhaps more up to date than others, but by far not the most."

"Who would have the most up to date timestream information?" Martin continued.

Rip frowned and scratched his jaw. "Well, I suppose that would be the ships that were present during the final moments of the base, and the Oculus, but they were all destroyed..."

"Were they?" Professor Stein cut in, a pointed look at his pupil.

Rip looked blankly back, shaking his head with a shrug.

"I believe I can answer your inquiry, Professor Stein," chimed Gideon's voice from above.

"I feel certain that you can, my dear," replied Martin, smiling up at the ceiling.

"The only ship that currently carries the most up to date timestream information," continued the computer, "is this one. I downloaded everything from the Vanishing Point computer systems. I also downloaded the unique identities of each of the artificial intelligence's in the ships I scuppered."

"That must be quite the party you got hidin' away in there," chortled Mick. "Looks like you _can_ teach an old AI new tricks!"

"Chronologically, Mister Rory, I believe your current lifespan to be considerably greater than mine."

"Huh?" Mick looked to Ray and Sara on either side of him. Ray was looking away, desperately trying to hide the grin that was forcing its way onto his face.

"She means 'less of the _old_ , old man'," translated Sara, unashamedly making no attempt to hide the grin that was flourishing across her own.

"Let me get this straight," said Rip, waving a hand at Sara and Mick then, catching a very sharply pointed glare from the former, at Professor Stein. "Your theory is that the Time Pirates attacked the Acheron because they thought it was the Waverider? Surely they know better?"

"Not quite, Captain," replied the Professor, raising a hand of his own, "My theory, hypothesis really, if you will, is that they, whoever _they_ are, attacked the Acheron, kidnapping Captain Baxter in the process, to lure in us. The Waverider. You."

"Wait," Ray held up both hands, just to be on the safe side. " _They_? Whoever _they_ are? Professor, who else would do this but Time Pirates? Surely you can't think there's another group out there on the hunt for us?"

"I neither suggest nor assume anything, Raymond," pointed out Stein. "I merely form my conclusions, as far as the evidence will allow, and use those to build hypotheses that can be tested scientifically. Just as I taught my students to do in class."

"And how do you propose we 'scientifically test' this?" Rip asked.

"Surely that is obvious, Rip," cut in Luke from the monitor. "I stay here, continue with the primary mission to re-harness the wellspring. You go after Eve."

Rip looked from Martin to Luke and back. The Professor gave a shrug and nodded. Rip sighed wearily and looked down at the holotable.

"You can't stay here alone, Luke," he decided, finally. "If they come back, you need to be able to put up a fight. At least enough of one to get away."

"Time Captains have always worked alone, Rip," Luke reminded him.

"I don't," Hunter muttered. "Eve did and look where it got her."

"Then what do you suggest?" Luke shrugged. "We only have two ships."

"But we do have eight crew," murmured Rip, dragging a hand over his eyes. " _And_ we have two jump ships. I _suggest_ we stick to the teams I had previously planned to use, with one minor alteration, leaving one here to work on the rebuild and taking the other to track down our mysterious adversaries."

"You're splittin' the team?" Mick frowned. "Sure that's your best move, boss?"

"It's the best we've got in the circumstances," interjected Sara, catching Rip's eye as he looked round. "And the teams themselves make the most sense too."

"And amazingly I am not surprised at the one person who seems to know your mind, Hunter," sing-songed Luke, his features regaining some of the icy distance they had seen in Amiens.

Eyes still locked, Sara saw Rip's jaw tighten. She wasn't the only one.

"Sara's right, Captain," nodded Ray, "those teams definitely make the most sense."

"I concur," added Stein hurriedly.

Silence fell, all eyes on the captain. He turned slowly, looking over his assembled crew with a thoughtful, perhaps grateful, expression.

"Then I'll send your new crew-mates over momentarily," he announced, false cheer filling the face that returned to the monitor. "Please prepare to receive them. Gideon, end transmission."

The monitor went unceremoniously blank.

"What teams?" Amaya demanded.

XXXX

Leonard withdrew from the balcony, the crowd below chanting his Egyptian moniker: Herakhty, Horus of the Sunrise. The girl had been lifted up, reverently he observed, and borne away into the depths of the temple. He made a mental note to ask Meryatum about it later.

On the bed there lay several items for his perusal. They were items of clothing, of varying degrees of formality, and his faithful servant had explained each one as he laid it out. The gold and turquoise pectoral was a must, apparently, and he was glad he hadn't let his recent run of apotheotic luck dissuade him from keeping in shape. If he had, he might have found the weight of that golden collar on his shoulders bending him out of whatever shape was left. The craftily hinged and delicately detailed feathers of the wings of the falcon spread out to encircle the wearer's neck, each inlaid in the vivid blue of turquoise and the marbled red and brown of a stone Leonard thought he had once heard called carnelian. The head of the falcon protruded upwards in the centre of the collar. The golden countenance would rest at the base of his throat, Meryatum had pointed out, so that the voice of Horus might flow the truer through him. He wondered, as idly as any career criminal might, how much such a piece would fetch on the black market in twenty sixteen. It wasn't the only treasure either. The bed lay adorned in rings, amulets, bracelets, bangles and belts, all carefully constructed witnesses to the craftsmanship of the age. Gold glistered up at him, its light evolving in the myriad of blue glassware and translucent gemstones encrusting it, and reaching him as something wholly more alive. More real. Ironic, really, he pondered, considering how the next place he, or any of the people he had left behind, might see them would be in the exhibitions of funerary and grave goods perennially on display at museums around the globe.

Unless, of course, he made sure otherwise.

He had already established his ability to move things through the timeline with him. He would gladly give up a worn out sweater and scuffed pair of skinny jeans for a haul like this. He would be needing something to wrap them in, though. A noise by the door brought his attention to it before it opened. When Meryatum walked into the room, he was faced with the pectoral clad form of Herakhty standing straight and tall before him, staring him down before his eyes were even around the edge of the door.

XXXX

Persuading his crew to divide into the pairs he had suggested to Sara earlier did not go as badly as Rip Hunter had expected. Ray and Martin had already assented, even without knowledge of the captain's choices, and thus were more inclined to listen to his reasons _before_ arguing against them. Mercifully they saw the method in his madness and made a few moves to mollify the malcontents. Everyone agreed the need for both a scientist and a mechanic on the team tasked with engineering a new, less dangerous, Oculus, but there was some argument over not placing the team's top engineer in that group. After some discussions referring to eggs and baskets, and teachers and pupils, it was decided that Martin and Jax would manage just fine without Doctor Palmer's input.

Unsurprisingly, to some, Amaya was the one to prove the most recalcitrant. Mick had argued his own case as only Mick could, but ultimately he trusted his team, and when Sara, Ray, Stein and Rip all took one side, he followed. Amaya didn't.

"You cannot effectively fight on two fronts, Hunter," she asserted. "Not with this team. There are not enough. If the Endeavour is attacked, I can use my powers to defend it, but the boy and the old man cannot."

"Hey!" Jax complained from the far side of the holotable.

Rip help up a hand to him, his eyes now fixed on Amaya. "Mister Jefferson and Professor Stein are much more than merely their powers. They have proven as much time and again on this very vessel. Not to mention on others and out in the field. Raise your hand, anyone in this room that has single-handedly infiltrated a top secret Russian facility at the height of the cold war, without backup."

Rip stepped aside, giving his newest team member a clear view of the others. Only one had a hand raised.

"Crossed a battlefield weaponless and under fire?" Rip hazarded.

This time, five hands went up. Amaya raised an eyebrow at him, and a hand.

"Yes, okay, granted, we've all been there," he sighed. "But who here has, again, single-handedly, taken down a team of Time Pirates!"

Once again, Stein's was the only hand raised.

"Admittedly, they were somewhat depleted in number at the time," Martin began, "and..."

"And he had to take time out to rescue myself, Mister Jefferson and indeed Captain Baxter," interrupted Rip, "whose ship was, at the time, the very one in peril."

Amaya folded her arms and raised her chin. "Very well. I shall endeavour to protect your colleague in this enterprise, but if he is anything like his foster brother, I bear no responsibility for any disaster his actions lead us into."

"Capital! As gracious in defeat as always, I see," blustered Rip, striding around to the top of the holotable again. "Now, if you, Madame, would accompany Mister Jefferson and Professor Stein to the jump ship. Mister Rory, if you wouldn't mind making a fourth just to fly the ship back once they are safely aboard the Endeavour. Mister Palmer, Miss Lance and I will attempt to ascertain our next set of co-ordinates."

Vixen followed Firestorm out of the room, her nose still in the air. Mick glared at Hunter through narrowed eyes for a moment, then followed.

"Actually, I have something I've been working on that might help," offered Ray, already wearing the base layer of his supersuit. "Let me just grab my notes."

"Well that went well," commented Sara, leaning back against the holotable beside Rip.

"Yes, it's _amazing_ what a perceived insult will do for team cohesiveness," quipped the captain. "And, Miss Lance, if you could _please_ stop flirting with my brother. It is somewhat... disconcerting."

Sara laughed and leant close to his ear, her voice dropping to an amused whisper. "Foster brother."


	11. A Time To Act

Leonard Snart, alleged Egyptian God of the Sunrise, prowled the corridors of the temple of Horus. His presence had been requested by the priests and priestesses of Horus, to pass judgement on a matter that was concerning them. He had decided to take his time answering their request. A summons, however polite and reverent, was still a summons.

Visiting Egypt had never been on Snart's bucket list. Too hot for starters. Plus all the good stuff was already gone. He had read up on it though, a little more every time an exhibition was in town. The intrinsic value of the tomb treasures was always higher if you knew how to prove their provenance. And it was always a good idea to know how to spot a fake. Leonard Snart was nobody's patsy. The same books and websites that had educated him on the shiniest relics of this ancient world, however, had only scratched the surface of the most beautiful. Sometimes literally. The walls around him were intricately carved, just as he might have expected them to be. They were also brightly painted, some with such delicate, detailed brushstrokes that a bird's wing might have been cemented in the stone itself and looked less real. And Leonard Snart appreciated beautiful things. His thief brain wondered if he could get away with commissioning a small tablet for himself. If he could bring it through the ages ahead safely, it wouldn't just be pricey: it would be priceless!

Sauntering with the regal grace and ease of a sacred cat, Leonard turned the last corner and saw the bright daylight of the public courtyard warming the interior of the larger hypostyle hall. He had no option but to enter into the centre of the twelve great, lotus topped columns, in full view of the waiting groups. The women, silent and haughty, filled the space between the columns to his left. The men to his right. High Priest and Priestess faced each other in the forefront of each faction, their acolytes behind them by degrees. Only three people stood in the centre of the chamber with him: Meryatum, the young girl and a temple guard. Snart presumed this was the guard that had raised a hand to the child. He looked to Meryatum for confirmation and received it in a nod. He didn't nod back. Between the pectoral and the headdress he'd been decked out in, he wasn't sure he would get his head back up again.

"What do you ask of me?" Snart demanded, addressing the question to nobody in particular.

"My noble lord," began the child.

An elderly, by local standards, priest cut in with an angry admonishment. "Do not presume the messenger of Horus speaks to you, girl!" 

Leonard Snart stepped towards the girl and sank to one knee. She was kneeling there, barely more than skin and bone, her eyes fixed on the sand strewn stone floor. He looked her over, checking for any recent injuries as automatically as he had every time he got home from juvie and tracked down his baby sister. The ragged scraps the child had been wearing before would not have concealed much, but she had been washed and cleaned, fed and watered too he hoped, and was now dressed in a plain linen shift of the type the novice priestesses wore. Her curly brown hair had been pulled back and persuaded to stay in a single braid. It looked like she had been made victim to the omnipresent black kohl eyeliner too, although, unlike him, there was a hint of a green cosmetic above the black. He stretched out a hand and tilted her chin upwards.

"What is your name, little girl?" Leonard asked softly.

A pair of wide brown eyes looked up at him. "Chey-Ara, my lord."

If Meryatum's news earlier hadn't already provided this little fact, the absurdity of the situation might have registered on Leonard's face. At the time, he had found himself suddenly laughing hysterically in his room, much to his servant's surprise. Now, he just held the girl's gaze and repeated his earlier question. "And what do you ask of me, Chey-Ara?"

"I wish to choose, my lord," replied Chey-Ara, her tiny frame trembling in terror. "The High Priestess wants me to remain here and serve Horus in the temple. She says he has saved me for this. The High Priest wants me to be taken to the royal palace, to be raised there with the Pharaoh's daughters. He says I am a daughter of Horus, just like they are, and must be treated the same way. They both wish you to decide between them. To make the choice for me."

"And what would you choose, Chey-Ara?" Leonard enquired, holding back a smile at the thought of where this wisp of a girl would end up, and with whom. "Princess or Priestess?"

"I choose to remain, my lord," answered the child. "My Lord Horus sent you to protect me. Please: don't make me leave here."

Leonard Snart smiled. There was a warmth in the smile rarely bestowed on anyone other than Lisa and Mick, and now Sara. He had never expected to turn such a smile on Kendra, even this younger version of her, but the desire to choose her own fate, so sickening to him when bestowed entirely upon the choice between boy scout and bird man, now resonated with him so strongly that he would have answered her plea even if it hadn't had the pleasing side effect of annoying the irritating old man now glowering at them from the sidelines.

"Then you shall remain," he decreed. "No man shall interfere with this choice, Chey-Ara, unless they wish to doom themselves and this kingdom as well."

Leonard rose, holding out a hand to the young Chey-Ara to do the same. She took it and stood up, still meeting his gaze. He led her over to the High Priestess, standing serenely off to the side, and passed the child's hand into hers. When he turned back, the guard was still on his knees, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped.

"You," barked Leonard, coming to a stop before the guard. "Get up."

The man dragged himself to his feet, knees shaking and eyes widening.

"What is the punishment for striking a child?" Leonard hissed.

"N-none, my Lord," stammered the guard. "Not for a street rat like this."

"She is not a street rat," Leonard shot back. "Not any more. She is and always was a child, forgotten by you but not by her God. You will never raise your hand to another child, _any_ other child. Horus is watching you. All of you. Even as he passes through the underworld. And he will stand witness at the weighing of your soul."

The man's face grew ashen and he fell back to his knees. "My Lord, mercy! Do not send me into the west so soon! Give me time! I will redress the balance. The feather of Maat will not condemn me. The book of Thoth will not record my name among the damned. I will serve Horus for all my days, that he may stand witness that my heart is light and my soul unburdened."

Snart sneered down at the man. He was a coward, just like so many others. He hadn't meant a sentence of instant execution, but that certainly seemed to be how the coward had taken his words. And how much was a promise made in fear really worth?

"You shall serve Horus," he decided. "You shall be a servant to the lowliest of his servants. You shall be given the hardest, dirtiest, nastiest jobs in the temple, until the day Horus chooses to call you forth from your punishment."

The man fell at his feet, bowing low to the ground. "Thank you, my Lord, thank you!"

Leonard turned away, ignoring his new sycophant, and looked back to Chey-Ara thoughtfully. "Meryatum!"

The prince hurried around the grovelling guard and took his place by Leonard's side. "My Lord."

"See to it that Chey-Ara receives the education of a warrior as well as a priestess," he ordered, loudly enough that he was certain the leaders of both factions heard him. Chey-Ara certainly did and her eyes widened, but not with fear. "This little girl has more courage in her than that great disgrace of a guard ever did. She will need it, and she will need the training."

XXXX

The Waverider flew through the timestream, following the data Ray's newest gadgetry had churned out. Sara leant back against the wall of Rip's office. Ray was tinkering with his suit. Mick was cleaning his gun. Normally they'd be asleep by now, but the sight of the Vanishing Point, followed by the demise of the Acheron, had thrown everyone's sleep patterns out of whack. Not that 'everyone' was such a big term now. Without the others, the ship felt empty. She wondered if it felt this empty for the captain before his life fell apart and he was spurred to recruit them all. She had been watching him for twenty minutes, standing staring out the only real window of the ship. If she was any judge, he'd be blaming himself. He was like Ollie that way: the weight of the world on his shoulders and at least a handful of reasons why everything was ultimately his fault. In all probability, she thought, he would be standing there, focussing on some tiny thing he could never have prevented, trying to work out what he could have done differently. Of course he could be thinking about the mission, Sara considered. Everyone else was. Everyone bar herself, of course. Somebody had to come up with a plan, beyond 'let's follow Ray's newest toy and see where it leads' anyway. If the quantum whosumawhatsit did it's job they would either end up where the attacking ship had come from, or where it was going. Ray was still working out the kinks to try and work out which. If they ended up where it was going, and they caught up with them, they would need some kind of plan to get Eve back. If they ended up where it had come from, they would have another decision to make: follow the thread back to the Vanishing Point and try again, or wait it out and see if they show up.

"What are you thinking?" Sara called across the bridge.

Rip's head turned, but not by much. "Who the hell are we fighting, Miss Lance? It's not Time Pirates. They're brash and obvious. They don't like to hedge their bets. They'll take a ship and wait to see who comes to help, certainly, but this? It's not their style. On the other hand, the Time Council is gone. We destroyed them. Maybe not all of them, but enough that they would think twice before taking us on again. That leaves us with three options. If it is the Time Council, it must be some future form of them, once they've regrown a bit more power than they've just been left with. If it's Time Pirates, they've got someone else working with them."

"And the third option?" Sara enquired, walking over to the holotable.

"It's someone else entirely and we have no idea what we're walking into."

"You missed one," she sighed, leaning down on the console.

"I might have guessed," replied Rip with a short laugh. He turned and leant back against the window. "Do tell."

"What if it's all three?" Sara suggested.

"The Time Council join forces with the Pirates?" Rip scoffed. "They'd sooner join forces with _me_ than each other!"

"With us," Sara corrected.

"No, trust me: it's me the Time Council hold responsible. It's _me_ the Time Pirates have all heard of," he sighed, walking over to the holotable. "If there's a single target at the root of this, believe me: it's me."

Sara considered the captain for a moment, hands braced against the side of the table, head bent, eyes peering down at the two dimensional display. She tipped her head to one side. "I know why the Time Council are after you," she said, watching him closely. "What's the deal with the Time Pirates? Mick said you're kinda famous."

"Yes, I think 'infamous' is more the word Mister Rory remembers," sniped back Rip, not meeting Sara's eyes once.

"Infamous, huh?" Sara laughed, folding her arms. "Well that's gotta have a story behind it. Spill."

"It is rather a long story, Miss Lance," tried Rip, "and this is hardly the time and place!"

"You got somewhere else to be?"

Rip sighed. His jaw tightened. "Fine."


	12. A Time to Pray

The inner sanctum of the temple was forbidden to all but the uppermost echelons of the clergy, and the Messenger of Horus, of course. Leonard Snart sat on a low, curving, gilded wooden stool, watching the light play across the walls. It was clever how they had done it. A few isolated holed in the roof at the right points, with a few gold discs positioned just so, and, at the important times of the day or year, the whole room lit up like a Christmas tree. Right not with glimmered in the half-light of evening.

Mostly he was left alone when in this sacred space. The priests and priestesses providing him privacy to commune with his god. Perhaps they thought he was praying for the next sunrise. He could hear them, chanting, in the smaller chapels that encircled this holy of holies, but he had learned to tune them out. The past thirteen weeks had made sure of that: wherever he went in the temple there was chanting. Eerie. Echoing. Ecclesiastical.

Leonard Snart closed his eyes and began his nightly ritual. The clergy might thing he was praying to Horus, but Mnemosyne would be closer to the truth. What had started as a daily task after breakfast in the Stone Age days had become a chore for both morning and evening now. He was on the edge of uncharted waters, halfway through his time in Egypt and finding himself more and more tied to the friends he had made here. And the friends he had found. He had never been more in danger of losing himself than now, but it was only going to get worse from here on.

Therefore, he performed his ritual. Every dawn. Every dusk. Every quiet moment he had. A silent litany of names and faces, passing through his mind, each dredging up some memory or other to colour the details. Lisa. Mick. Sara. So often he lingered on Sara, savouring her smile, her laugh, her sharp tongue, and numerous other portions of her anatomy she'd kick his ass if she knew just how much attention he'd paid them. He didn't forget the others. When he felt he had lingered long enough on Sara that fantasy was starting to take over from memory, he switched to the rest. Palmer, Allen, silver top and the kid. Snow and Lisa's little fanboy. Wells. The grown versions of Carter and Kendra, never far from his thoughts these days anyway. West and his kids. Hunter. Hunter's was another face he tended to linger on, for a whole other set of reasons. Sara, along with Lisa and Mick, was his reason for getting home. Hunter was his ticket back there. The young Rip Hunter had indicated two more chance meetings before his future self stood a chance of remembering their encounter in the Stone Age. He hadn't said when, but Leonard got the idea they were a long way off, and this was pre-Savage Rip, so there was little chance one of them would be here.

The to-ing and fro-ing of time messed with Leonard's head. He found it easier to think of the younger man as Rip, and the older, broken, version as Hunter. Hunter was due to turn up here in a couple of decades. Rip wasn't. Not unless their fearless leader had neglected to mention the irony of having been in the exact vicinity of his nemesis before even his mortal self had risen in power. Not that that would be unusual, Snart thought with a smirk.

Now it was his turn to keep secrets. To manipulate. Hunter's face never left Snart's mind without leading him to question everything he was doing. He had the power to change everything, even before it truly began. He had the power to kill Hath-Set, Savage's younger, mortal self, either by his own hands or by apotheotic order, or both! He'd had the power to choose Chey-Ara's fate. Snart hadn't even considered the possibility that the scrawny little street urchin he was rescuing might be the future High Priestess of Horus. He had simply seen a little girl in danger and reacted. The differences our choices make, he thought. If he hadn't picked up that apple. If he hadn't walked over to the balcony at that moment. So many 'ifs' ran through his mind.

Hunter had said 'time wants to happen'. Was that what was happening now? Was this always how the young Chey-Ara's rise to power began? How she met her beloved prince? Oh yes, that had been his doing too. Not deliberately. His only deliberate actions in steering Kendra's past destiny happened when he gave the girl her freedom to choose, and when he ordered Meryatum to educate and train her. Train her as a warrior. He should have seen it coming, of course. Maybe a part of him had. Mostly he was just acting on instinct. His gut had told him, while Meryatum fussed about, dressing and painting him for the fateful meeting, that ending Savage now, or trying to stop Kendra and Carter's futures from taking their destined route, would be a bad idea. So far, all his instinctive moves had only gone further towards writing the prologue to the trio's tale. He had decided to go with it. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he had picked the right path.

Every night, and every morning, he played out the alternatives in his head. How bad could it be? Kill Savage now, save millions, maybe billions of lives. Save Hunter's family. Save himself.

But that was just it. Even without trying to think about the billions of butterfly effects rippling down through the ages from every person Savage didn't get killed, if Hunter's family never died, Hunter wouldn't have any reason to recruit his little band of seven Samurai, counting Firestorm as one of course. If Hunter never recruited him, he would still be stuck in Central City, stealing stuff. Mick would never have gone through whatever shit the Time Assholes put him though. Carter and Kendra would never have had to watch their son die. Kendra would never have had to watch Carter die, or spend two years stuck in the past with Palmer. And Sara. Sara would never have gone back to the League of Assassins, got a handle on her bloodlust, learned how to feel again, taught him he was capable of feeling something for someone other than Lisa and Mick. Capable of letting someone in. Capable, perhaps, of being a better man. She would never even have met him. Or he her.

If he never saw her again, that still wasn't something he'd risk losing, He'd let the world tear itself apart time and time again just to hold on to the memory of her.

Snart's thoughts turned back to Kendra, or Chey-Ara as she was now. He had entrusted Meryatum with her training because he believed the prince would follow his orders without question, and he had the power to do so. He hadn't expected the royal tutors to be involved, but that was exactly what happened. Meryatum had engaged the very same tutors that had trained him as a boy, and had employed their current pupil as a sparring partner for the young Chey-Ara. Their current pupil just happened to be his younger brother, Prince Khufu.

Leonard had spotted the pair, one day, practising their fighting skills in the gardens nearby, within the temple enclave. He had watched the match with interest, noting his prodigy's progress, until some familiarity he could not quantify had made him enquire after the boy's name. He had watched their training sessions with considerable interest after that!

A smile still playing on his face, Leonard opened his eyes. Hath-Set still worried him, but he had been sent on a diplomatic errand as part of an envoy to nearby Kush and nothing could be done about him at present. Nor could he do anything about the budding friendship between young Prince Khufu and the Chosen Child of Horus. It was a friendship that would later turn to love, Leonard knew, and lovers who were friends first were more difficult to part than a thief and his wits.

XXXX

"How do you do it?" Ray muttered, bending over the workbench he had set up in his little spare corner of the ship. It was just a thick metal board over two stacks of boxes in another of the Waverider's storage rooms, but it was enough for the inventor. The current project was the visor of the A.T.O.M suit helmet.

"Do what?" Mick barked back, his own focus on removing one of the components of his Chronos suit.

"Stay so calm all the time now," Ray elaborated, waving a hand in Mick's general direction. The ex-bounty hunter handed the ex-billionaire the screwdriver he was working with. It wasn't exactly your average Phillips head type. This was one of the Waverider's screwdrivers, 'borrowed' from Rip's own tool bag. It worked by application of repetitive pulses of the same frequency as the material's own natural vibrations. It was Ray's favourite new toy. "You never get really angry like you used to. You hardly ever join in when Sara starts a bar fight. Or when Stein starts a bar fight. Or that one time, when..."

"Yeah, I get the picture, Haircut," rumbled Mick, leaning back against a stack of boxes. "All the fun stuff I used to do I just don't do any more, is that what your tryin' to say?"

"Well, yes," Ray shrugged and looked round. "But like now: there's no way we're not flying into some kind of trap. Now, I know we're good at what we do, but I'm still so nervous I can barely keep my hands steady enough to work. I can't sit still and not work either though. How do you do it?"

"Guess a century or so of brainwashing, torture and being someone's puppet attack dog taught me somethin' about patience," shrugged the pyro. "You get to a point where you just kinda get used to the waiting."

"Waiting?" Ray frowned.

"For the next thing to happen," Mick murmured. "For the next fight, the next mission, the next job. For Hunter to make his mind up where we're going. For you to quit tryin' to blow us all to hell with that thing. For Blondie to decide whether she's at the bar to drink something, snog someone or start a fight. For..."

Ray got up when his usually taciturn friend stumbled over his words. "For what?"

"Doesn't matter," Mick shook his head.

"I think it does," said Ray, stepping closer. "You know, you _can_ trust me, Mick. Whatever's on your mind, you can say it. You can talk to me. Total confidence. No judgement."

Mick glared, growling wordlessly at Palmer's Doctor Phil routine. Eventually he nodded, just a little bit. "For Snart to show up. He never did do anything without a plan. I don't know what it is, but it's sure as hell taking its time working."

Ray's brows knotted. "You think Snart's coming back somehow? How? Mick, you know as well as I what Rip said the Oculus explosion would do to me. I'm sorry, but Leonard is gone. His plan was to save you. It already has worked."

Mick shook his head, his arms folding around himself like armour. "He didn't want to be a hero, and he had no reason to die for me. I'm the one with the debt to pay. To him. To all of you. Even before the Oculus, I owed him."

"He was your friend," Ray frowned, as if this explained everything. "He loved you. I know, it's not something you guys talked about, but, friendship like that, you don't need to. He loved you. You and his sister. Only two people I think he every really loved."

"Three," rumbled Mick, shifting his gaze away. "He cared about the team too, but there was someone else he was close to."

"Sara," guessed Ray, holding his ground. "I know they got pretty close since almost freezing to death. You know I always did wonder why he was grinning so much when I woke up from being clinically dead that time..."

"Oh, no that was all you, Haircut," corrected Mick, coming back to the conversation as the scientist trailed off in thought. He even allowed himself a small grin. "He had a bit of a crush after the whole Russia affair. Always did have a weak spot for goody two shoes nerds. Runs in the family! But you're right about Sara. She got under his skin."

"That explains... a lot," mused Ray, not entirely sure what to do with all the information he had just been given. He focussed in on the last part. "I mean the way you've been acting around her. Around all of us, really, but especially her."

"What do you mean?" Mick rumbled, watching Ray through narrowed eyes.

"You're more protective of her," Ray shrugged openly. "I mean you're more protective of me and the rest of the team than you ever were before, but when it comes to Sara? You stay away from too much booze so you're always the one that has to carry _her_ home from the bars. You watch every girl she disappears for a while with. And every guy, although there have been less of those. You make sure she gets checked out by Gideon after _every_ fight. Mission or not. You're keeping her safe for him."

"What if I am?" Mick growled back. "Dead or alive, it's what Snart would have wanted."

"Probably, but not alone," Ray replied, hands raised in appeasement. "We're a team. We all look out for each other. And we have been. We might not have known what Leonard meant to her, but ever since Laurel the whole team's been looking out for Sara. Okay, so some of us are better at it than others, but you know: Amaya doesn't really know her yet, and Rip's only so good with her because he's lost family too. The rest of us are somewhere in between."

"Snart was the closest thing _I_ had to family," Mick pointed out, looking down at the gloves that hid his scarred hands. "Hell, he was family for longer than my _family_ were family. Him _and_ Lisa. Now he's gone and Lisa doesn't want to know me. Blames me. I don't blame her, either."

"You still have us, Mick," murmured Ray. "This team. You, me, Sara, Rip, Jax, Stein. We've been through too much now to let that go. Amaya too. We're more than just a team. We're a family. Little and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good."

Mick narrowed his eyes at Ray. "You just quoted somethin', didn't you, Haircut. I can tell by the smug little smile you got goin' there."

Ray deflated. "It was Lilo and Stitch. Sort of."

XXXX

Rip and Sara were sitting at either end of the bridge window, facing each other. Rip's head was turned to the window, staring out into the shimmering lights of the timestream, while Sara hugged her knees to her chest and watched him. She felt like a child hearing a story at bedtime. That was when it clicked. The lilting cadence of his voice. The familiar, almost rehearsed, fluidity of his words. The creative flourishes in each tale.

"You used to tell your son these stories, didn't you," she interrupted. She regretting voicing her supposition immediately. Reflected in the window, she saw him freeze, his eyes closing slowly.

Rip swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. If she hadn't spoken. If she had only let him finish the story. Finish it without breaking the spell. He had always told every tale to its conclusion, even after Jonas was fast asleep. He had always had another listener, standing behind him, in the doorway to their son's room, watching him. Treasuring every moment she had with him. As he had with her. But there were never enough moments. There could never _be_ enough moments. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

"Yes," confirmed the Captain, his eyes still fixed on the way ahead. "Every night I was home, he would beg to hear the stories of my travels. My adventures, he called them. Sometimes there were new stories to tell, but he was just as happy to hear an old tale again. He would fall asleep, listening to my voice, and he would look so peaceful there."

Sara heard the falter in his voice and cursed herself for bringing the subject up.

"Miranda would watch us," he continued, aware of the assassin's eyes on him and ignoring them. "She always thought I didn't hear her sneaking up to the doorway, but I did. Then, when Jonas was asleep, she'd walk over and I'd feel her hands on my shoulders, and I would keep talking. Telling the story for her. Just for her. She'd walk round my chair and curl up on my lap, listening, her head on my shoulder. All the world could vanish outside those walls and we wouldn't have cared. We had everything we needed right there in that room. I could have stayed there forever. Should have stayed..."

"You had a job to do," breathed Sara, when Rip's voice faded away into the darkness beyond. "She knew that. She understood. They both did."

"Miranda maybe," he shook his head, "but Jonas? No. To him, I was his wild, adventuring father. Exciting, but absent. Hero of a thousand stories. But I could never be the hero of his."


	13. A Time To Run

Ray, Mick, Sara and Rip were all on the bridge of the Waverider when it dropped out of the timestream. They were cloaked, but that didn't stop the moment of panic that sped through Ray's heart when he saw what lay before them. He glanced at the others. Sara and Mick were unreadable, the former wearing her best assassin's poker face, the latter an all-purpose scowl. Rip was less guarded, but if anything he simply looked intrigued. The Captain had stepped forward, out of his chair, towards the window. It looked to Ray like he was counting. He had good reason to.

The structure that almost filled the Waverider's window was a vast conglomeration of ships. Some looked a little like the timeships of the Time Masters' fleet. Others were unknown to Ray. He let his eyes travel from the bottom of the window to the top, taking in all the rambling oddities of the structure. It was like someone had raided a space junkyard and stuck all the bits together in whatever order they turned up. Occasionally, the bits appeared to be entire vessels. He knew exactly what Professor Stein would have said were he with them, so he said it for him.

"Astonishing!"

Beside him, Ray saw Sara roll her eyes. "Stick to quoting movies, Ray," she grinned.

"If you have to quote anything at all," added Mick.

"Gideon," called Rip, ignoring them all, "can you tell how many of the ships in this station are functional?"

"In terms of being free flying and not a fixed part of the station, Captain, I can," replied Gideon happily. "There are approximately seventy three vessels capable of detaching from the station and attacking us."

"Approximately?" Sara frowned, glancing up.

"I cannot account for any vessels which are fully or partially obscured by the station itself," explained the AI, "or any vessels which, like ourselves, may be cloaked."

"What you can't see, you can't count," translated Rip, leaning a hand on the window and the other on his hip. "Gideon, what about fixed ships with defensive, or offensive, capabilities."

"I am afraid the shields in place around the station prevent me determining that data, Captain."

"Means 'no'," supplied Mick, unnecessarily.

"Doctor Palmer, can your device tell us which ship was present at the destruction of the Acheron?" Rip continued, looking round to Ray.

"Not quite," admitted the scientist, a smile forming on his face that belied the negative start to his news. "The sensor I retrofitted from Chronos' suit only shows particle wakes regardless of which ship made them. I did manage to get the visor adaptation working though. With that I should be able to see and identify the particle wake of the exact ship we've been following. I even managed to tune Gideon in to the visor, so now she sees what I, and it, sees."

The huge grin on the inventor's face made Mick roll his eyes this time. "Please don't ask him how it works. I've heard nothing but for the last three hours!"

"You know if this thing," Sara waved a hand at the window in general and the station behind it in particular, "is where our pirates or whoever call home there are two things we need to consider. One, we may still be at the wrong end of the wake trail and they aren't here. Two, if they are here, and this is home, there's no guarantee they'll still be on their ship even if we can identify it."

"And we can't very well attack a structure of this size with so many ships available and no knowledge of the station's own defences," added Rip. "Gideon, if you could get inside the shields, could you find out if and where they are holding Captain Baxter?"

"I believe I have sufficient biometric data from our last encounter to do so, Captain."

"Excellent," Rip clapped his hands together and hurried down the steps to the holotable. "Doctor Palmer, you and I need to put our heads together and come up with some way of getting through those shields."

"And what are Mick and I supposed to do while you two play nerd?" Sara enquired as Rip breezed past her. "Practise punching things?"

"I was rather hoping, Miss Lance," retorted Rip, spinning on one heel to face her, "that you and Mister Rory might perhaps come up with some possible plans of attack. Being, as you are, the experts in infiltrating enemy encampments."

XXXX

"My Lord! My Lord!" Meryatum's voice cut through Leonard's dreams, pulling him through the mists of drowsiness to an attentive alertness by their hushed and hurried tones. His servant, a royal prince no less, was afraid.

"What is it?" Leonard demanded, frowning in the darkness of the night. "The girl, Chey-Ara: is she safe?"

"She is gone, my Lord!" Meryatum whispered.

"Gone?" Snart hissed back. "How?"

"I do not know, my Lord," the prince replied, hanging his head. "I went to waken her for a lesson and she was gone. Her guards cannot explain it. They have seen and heard no-one!"

"What time is it?" Snart frowned.

"Some three hours before dawn, my Lord."

"A little early for schooling, isn't it?"

"Not on the movement of the stars, Lord."

"Huh," Snart nodded the truth of this and sat in silent contemplation. "Did she know of this lesson?"

"No, my Lord."

"Huh," Snart repeated, chewing on his lip in thought. "Find us some unobtrusive clothes, Merry. Peasant class. We're heading into town. I have a hunch."

XXXX

"This better work, Rip," muttered Sara, peering over the Captain's shoulder.

"It's mostly your plan!" Rip shot back, not looking up from his task. "Once we've got the shields out of the way..."

"It's the shields I'm worried about!" Sara cut in. "And the fact that Ray can't find his way out of a shopping mall never mind that labyrinth!"

"You heard him earlier," shrugged Rip, brushing off her concerns as if they weren't exactly the same as the ones already running through his own mind. Those and a few dozen others. "Gideon is linked to his visor now. She can track him and follow what he sees all the way through this structure."

"If we can keep the hole in the shields open," Sara added. "At least, keep them open long enough for Ray to find Captain Baxter and get her back here. Preferably without alerting the occupants to our presence of course."

"Yes, I'm well aware of the difficulties, Miss Lance," snapped Rip. "Of course, it might be easier to achieve the desired effect on the shields if one is allowed to concentrate!"

Sara pulled a face at the back of his head and stepped back.

"You sure this'll work, Haircut?" Mick checked, handing Ray his gloves as the inventor stood up.

"It's worked on other objects, like Savage's knife," Ray pointed out, pulling on the gloves. "And the shrink ray worked on the meteorite, it just needed a more stable power supply."

"Yeah, but you never had to un-shrink the meteorite," countered Mick.

"But I could have, in theory," grinned Ray. "If I wanted to."

Mick grumbled wordlessly and stepped back. He wasn't convinced, but that didn't matter. They were out of time for testing theories.

"Got it!" Rip crowed triumphantly. "Now, Doctor Palmer, in half an hour the station will rotate its shields and we'll have to go through all that again, so if you are not back by that time there will be a cut in communications while the breach is closed."

"Understood," nodded Ray, closing his visor. "Gideon, do you have access?"

"I have acquired access to all suit functions, Doctor Palmer," replied the computer. "Everything your suit detects is readable here."

"Then I guess I'll be going," grinned Ray, touching a gloved finger to the shrink control of the suit. He imploded to the size of a firefly and zipped through the gap Rip had engineered in both the station's shields and an empty airlock. "Okay, I'm in."

Rip let the airlock doors close, allowing Ray to open the pressure doors to the station on the other side of it. The hole in the shields would have to remain, for communication purposes, though, so the Waverider's airlock trapdoor remained open, the still cloaked ship matching its movements to the rotation of the space station to keep them stationary in relative terms.

"And now we wait," murmured the Captain.

"Now we wait," echoed Sara.

Mick rumbled something under his breath, walked over to a crate and sat down.

XXXX

Ray flew through the tubular corridors of the space station, feeling the unnerving sensation one gets when the floor goes from being the floor to being the wall. People hurried past, utterly unheeding of him or of each other. Ray ducked and dodged to avoid collisions, especially once the corridors started getting busier.

"Any luck yet, Gideon?" Ray asked, trying not to sound pushy.

"I have accessed the station's mainframe and am searching their databases now," reported the AI.

"Good, good," nodded Ray. "Let me know when you have something."

He had ducked, dived and dodged through three more corridors before Gideon's voice finally sounded again.

"I believe I have identified the holding cells, Doctor Palmer," stated the computer. "You will need to reverse your current course, then take the second exit on your left. This will take you to a large concourse with a balcony. You will have to fly over the balcony and down a level, then take the third door from the right..."

"One set of instructions at a time, please, Gideon," called Ray, now flying back in the opposite direction. "Might get a little confusing in this non-computerised head of mine."

"As you wish."

One instruction at a time, Ray found his way to the station's holding cells. Sure enough, there were guards, but it's amazing the pranks you can pull on an aggressive drunk when you're barely the height of a peanut. Soon, the guards were busy taming a full scale bar brawl. Ray slipped past the guard still on the desk and into the room that held the cells. In one, a young girl lay sleeping. In the one opposite, however, sat Captain Eve Baxter. He disabled the force field and expanded to full height.

"Hi. I'm Ray," he waved cheerfully. "I will be your rescuer this evening, courtesy of Captain Rip Hunter and the crew of the Waverider. Now if you'll just stand up, I'll shrink you right down to the size of an ant and we can get on out of here."

Eve Baxter let out a laugh of disbelief and shook her head. "Well, he's doing better than last time," she muttered. "So far!"

She stood up and Ray lifted his arm.

"Wait," said Eve, raising her hands then pointing over Ray's shoulder. "You have to take her too. They only want _me_ to lure in _Rip_. I don't know why they want _her_ , but it would be a really bad thing if they got her on their side when she wakes up."

"We're pushing the limits of the suit to shrink and unshrink two people never mind three," pointed out Ray. "If she's that important we can come back for her."

"No," Eve shook her head. "If it's a choice between coming back for me or coming back for her, you need to take her first and come back for me. I'm safe as long as they don't have Rip. She's not. And she could potentially be a danger to all of us."

"Why?" Ray asked. "Who is she?"

"There's no time to argue! Hurry!" Eve pushed him out of her cell and towards the other.

Ray nodded and disabled the force field on that cell too, shrinking the girl without waking her, scooping her up and carrying her back to the ship. Forewarned by Gideon, Rip and the others were ready to reopen the air lock doors. They were not ready for the one piece of information Gideon had not deemed necessary.

"Who the hell is this!" Rip exclaimed as the unconscious body of the girl regained its full size on the air lock floor.

"Don't know yet," replied a still miniaturised Ray through the comms, "but Captain Baxter seemed to think it was more important to get this young lady out of there than it was herself. I'm going back for her now."

"Ray, you only have ten minutes before the breach closes," Sara chided as the little blue light darted away again. "You have to hurry!"

This time the route to the cells was much faster and straightforward. Between having flown it before and having Gideon's guiding voice in his ear to make doubly sure, Ray managed to shave a good five minutes off his travel time. He reached the lower level of the concourse just in time to see the two guards sauntering back to their posts. There was nothing for it: he didn't have time to set up another distraction. He zipped over their heads and into the area with the cells. There was Captain Baxter, sitting on her bed just as before. He checked the force field was still down and hovered in front of Captain Baxter's eyes. She blinked, then stood up, understanding. The shrink ray fired. She disappeared.

Standing on the now perilous edge of the cell bed, Eve Baxter looked up at her rescuer and folded her arms. "Now what?"

"Now," said Ray, landing beside her on the edge of the precipice and holding his arms wide, "if you'd care to wrap your arms around my neck, I'll carry you."

Ray retraced his flight path, aware from the visuals inside his visor, and from the updates he was getting from Gideon, that his power supply was diminishing rapidly. He made it to the corridor with the air lock, but then, with an apologetic sputter, his flight mode gave out. He landed with a thump, setting Captain Baxter on her feet and dragging her to one side as considerably larger feet stampeded past.

"It's like Land of the Giants!" Ray sighed. "And I used to love that show too!"

"Show? What?" Eve frowned at the suited man, following as he pulled her into a run. 

"Never mind. I'll explain later," blurted Ray, checking the time on his suit watch. It still had its own battery. "We've only got two minutes left before our window closes."

"Window for what?" Eve frowned, running to catch up with him.

"Not _for_ what, _to_ what," Ray explained, still running. "Our window into the Waverider. We've only got it until they rotate their shields and that's due in... Darn!"

They were standing at the airlock door. At the bottom of the airlock door. With no way of reaching the controls.

"Waverider, we have a problem," intoned Ray, glancing again at his watch.

"Oh I was wondering when it might show itself," quipped Rip, his tools at the ready. "What exactly is it this time?"

"I need someone to come through the breach and open the door from the other side," replied Ray, oblivious to the sarcasm in his Captain's voice. "The power on my suit is dying and I can't fly."

"I'm on it," replied Sara. She turned to the Captain. "Open the breach further. Just enough for me to get through. I'm the smallest."

Rip nodded, already at work with his tools. "That should do it. Hurry."

Sara slipped though, the air lock door closing behind her, and righted herself, rolling to a standing position as the new down made itself felt. She pressed the control to open the door and crouched down, her hand palm upwards on the floor. Ray and Captain Baxter clambered onto it and she stood, pressing the control again to close the door.

"We're good," she reported. "Open the air lock, Rip."

The air lock doors slid open and Sara saw the shimmering edge of the hole in the shields.

"Hurry, Sara," urged Rip, beckoning from the other side of the breach. "They've started rotating the shields!"

Sara made a run for the gap, Ray and Captain Baxter enclosed in her hand. It was already starting to shrink. She dove through, head first, and heard the electric zip of the hole closing. Her landing was less graceful than she would have liked, but Sara's first thought was for the two miniaturised people in her hand. As Mick helped her up with one hand, she held out the other to Rip and opened it. A sullen Eve Baxter and cheerful Ray Palmer glared and waved back respectively.

When they had regained enough charge in Ray's suit to resize both him and Captain Baxter, the two joined Mick, Sara and Rip in the medical bay, around their latest unconscious guest.

"In my defence: she was unconscious when I picked her up," stated Ray, holding up his hands.

Mick opened his mouth to say something, but caught a glare from Sara and wisely decided to refrain.

Rip turned to his fellow captain and frowned. "So who is she, exactly? And why do you think she's so important?"

"Her name is Jesse Chambers Wells," Eve tacitly informed them. "Although I think she prefers Jesse Quick as her _nom de guerre_. She's a speedster."


	14. A Time To Share

The hum of the engines was lulling Sara to sleep. She had taken her turn on watch by Jesse's bedside an hour ago, and the combination of late nights, early mornings and inaction was taking its toll. She blinked her eyes wide and shook her head. This was not how a highly trained assassin kept watch.

"Here," murmured a soft voice beside her.

Sara blinked again and looked round. Rip was leaning against the doorframe, a mug in his outstretched hand. She hadn't heard him approach. That was bad. She must be really off her game. She always heard him when she was the first to turn up in his office every night. When she wasn't, he _never_ heard her.

"If there's whisky in there," began Sara, looking from his face to the mug and back again with raised brows, "I congratulate your ingenuity, but I think you're taking this trying not to drink alone thing of ours to a new extreme. Plus you only brought one mug, and I know _my_ day wasn't all _that_ bad. Yours on the other hand..."

"It's not whisky," he assured her, stepping closer and lowering the mug. "That really would be a bad idea if you're trying to stay alert."

She looked at the mug, cautiously leaning over to examine its contents. It looked like hot chocolate. It didn't smell like it.

"If I'm trying to stay awake," Sara muttered, glancing up with one suspicious eyebrow raised. "A mug of cocoa isn't my first thought for how to do that either."

"Actually, in point of fact, it's hot chocolate, not cocoa," mused Rip, peering down critically at the contents of the mug. "There _is_ a difference."

Sara tipped her head to the side and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Just try it," sighed the Captain, a lopsided smile doing nothing to calm Sara's suspicions. "It was for me, but you look like you could use it more. I can easily ask Gideon to fabricate me another one. It's what you might call an 'old fashioned' recipe. If it puts you to sleep, I promise I'll cover the rest of your watch."

Sara took the mug. The scents of spices filled her nostrils. It did wake her up a little, she thought. "Straight from the recipe books of the Mayans?"

"Hmm, not quite _that_ far back," grinned Rip.

If the smile had made her suspicious, the grin definitely wasn't helping, but now she was curious. She took a sip. Her eyebrows went up. "That has _quite_ a kick to it. What _exactly_ did you put in this?"

Rip let out a small laugh. "I think the 'kick' you're referring to is the chilli, but there are other spices. Cinnamon, cardamom, star anise, orange zest. Of course, if you don't like it..."

"No, no," replied Sara, passing the mug into her other hand, holding it away from Rip. "I did not say that. I just wondered where, or maybe _when_ , it came from."

"I came across it in the court of Charles the first," said Rip, looking down at his feet in a vain attempt to hide another rare grin. "One of a few forgotten recipes that I've added to Gideon's fabrication system."

"You need to teach me that trick," laughed Sara, sipping the drink again. "I mean: Mick's some cook, but his range is kinda limited. I know some great Thai recipes."

"Mister Rory does not have a monopoly on cooking for the team, you know, Miss Lance," Rip teased, his eyes lingering thoughtfully on the unconscious speedster across the room.

"Hah! No," Sara retorted, waving a hand in emphasis. "I said I _knew_ some great recipes. I did _not_ say I could make them! Me and kitchens. Not a good mix."

"I'll bear it in mind," replied the Captain, his voice beginning to take on that distracted quality that Sara had come to recognise.

"Something on yours?" Sara asked, looking up at him, her hands wrapped around the mug again.

"Hmm?" Rip looked round. He saw the look on Sara's face and decided against equivocation. "I was just thinking about something Rex said, before he vanished. About how we found him. He said we were almost all there, but 'Amaya had to stay and look after Jesse'."

"And now we have a 'Jesse' onboard who needs looking after," mused Sara. She nodded. "Makes sense. What else did he tell you?"

"About events leading up to us finding him, not a lot," admitted Rip. "Enough for me to find him though, when the time is right. About exactly how we met and recruited him on the other hand..."

"Really?" Sara's eyebrows went up. "That's unusual, isn't it? I thought it was dangerous to know too much about your future?"

"Apparently this future is one he wants to make sure actually happens," shrugged the Captain. "Presumably to make sure he joins us, although..." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably for a moment then looked back to Sara to find her watching him with an amused expression on her face. "What?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," she replied.

XXXX

The two men slipped silently through the temple corridors, bare feet padding along under brown peasant robes. Soon the public courtyard opened up before them, but instead of heading for the high, well guarded walls of the pylon, they stole through the colonnade along the edge of the open space to a narrow hidden doorway behind a statue. Meryatum led the way through a deep, dank, narrow tunnel that dragged on until Leonard thought he might drown in the damp darkness. Finally, a breath of fresh air caressed their faces and the tunnel came to a sudden stop. Meryatum felt along the wall in the darkness and there was a soft click. The blackness in front of them became less solid, and Leonard Snart stepped out into the Egyptian night.

The lights of the town were few. Marking out the taverns and guardhouses, most likely, Leonard thought. He pointed to a broad patch of darkness.

"What's over there?" Leonard whispered in his royal valet's ear.

"Nothing of interest, my Lord," replied the prince. "Only the houses of the poor."

"Then that's where we start," nodded the thief. "And Merry: if you ever end up Pharaoh promise me this. The poor must never be below your interest. Nobody should."

The houses were tiny: cramped together like sardines in a can. There could barely have been enough room for one person in each of them, let alone families. Together they prowled the streets, ducking under low, overhanging upper storeys, dodging around the somnolent limbs of the poorest of the poor. Finally a movement caught Leonard's eye and he stilled his companion with a flick of his hand. In the silence a young voice drifted back to them.

"You must eat, Raia," urged the piping tones of Chey-Ara. "You need your strength."

The reply was so weak it was almost inaudible. Leonard couldn't make out the words, but he knew there had at least been some. He waved at Meryatum to follow, quietly, and picked his way down the narrow street. He waved his faithful shadow to a stop a few feet away from the girls and padded silently forward alone. When his hand fell on Chey-Ara's shoulder, the girl spun out of his grasp and was standing between him and her companion in a heartbeat, a knife in her hand.

"Don't be afraid, little bird," he drawled, rising to his full height, and out of the shadow of the overhanging roof. "I come in peace."

Chey-Ara dropped her gaze and fell to her knees. "My Lord Herakhty."

"Now," sighed Leonard, sinking back down into the shadows. "Who do we have here?"

XXXX

"Captain Hunter," chimed Gideon's voice from above. "I have picked up a distress call. It appears to be coming from a small vessel adrift in the timestream."

Rip, who had sat up in his armchair at the sound of the AI's voice, frowned. "In the timestream? _In_ the actual timestream, Gideon?"

"Yes, Captain," replied Gideon. "The call does appear to be from a Time Master vessel, however I must remind you that many of these were seen at the Pirate Station we have recently left, and the residents there will surely be aware of their losses by now."

"Thank you, Gideon, I had thought of that," replied Rip, getting to his feet and heading over to the holotable. He peered down at the schematics of the vessel. It resembled the Waverider's jump ship. "Take us to it, Gideon. Alert Mister Rory, Doctor Palmer and Miss Lance, please."

"And Captain Baxter?" Gideon enquired.

"Might as well," he shrugged. "She'll kill me if I fly her into another trap without at least telling her first."

XXXX

The journey back to the palace had been uneventful. The guards on Chey-Ara's door were the only ones to see them return, but if either of them had anything to say about the Messenger of Horus carrying a stick thin child into the bedroom of the Chosen Child at the first light of dawn, they kept it to themselves. Chey-Ara and Meryatum followed Leonard into the room and watched him lay Raia down on the bed.

"Merry, get me a healer. The best you know," ordered Leonard. "Chey-Ara, pour a cup of that beer and bring it over."

The prince disappeared and the girl did as she was bidden. Leonard took the cup and held it to Raia's lips. It wasn't beer in the same sense as he knew it, it was far weaker than that, but it was strong enough to kill the pathogens that often lurked in the water. Not that the locals knew that. They just knew it was less likely to kill you.

Leonard let the frail child rest on the white linen covers of Chey-Ara's bed. She was famished and dehydrated, and he wasn't entirely sure she would last a day even with all the help he could give her. He had to try, though, for Chey-Ara's sake. Raia was her little sister, after all.

XXXX

Captain Eve Baxter looked down at the display on the holotable and laughed. "It's not a trap."

"How can you tell?" Rip frowned, annoyed he couldn't.

"I know the vessel," shrugged Eve. "There's no way its captain would have anything to do with the Time Pirates, and there is no way it would be sending that precise code without her collaboration."

"Again..." Rip began.

"It's a modified Time Master distress code," Eve pointed out.

Rip nodded. "I spotted the Time Master bit. I just assumed the changes were something added after my... departure."

"Not quite," Eve smiled. "You didn't know this particular Time Captain, but I did. We were friends, you might say. She was one of the few recruited later in life. She was rescued by a young, impressionable Time Captain who was just a little bit star struck at the time. She bought into the idea of protecting the timeline, like we all did, and decided to join us. She went through basic training and was paired up with a slightly more experienced Time Captain for a while before being given her own ship. That Time Captain was me. We discussed many tactical scenarios, particularly those that bore some resemblance to the situation she was found in. One of the strategies we came up with is the one she is using here. Gideon, separate the standard Time Master distress code from the modifications. You should find the modifications themselves interesting."

Mick, Ray and Captain Baxter waited patiently while the AI ran its analysis. Rip looked from the holotable readouts to the ceiling and back with baffled impatience.

"I believe the modifications alone provide a set of co-ordinates, Captains," stated Gideon, diplomatically. "Shall I input them?"

"Yes," replied Eve and Rip together. The former smiled apologetically at the latter and waved a hand at the pilot's seat.

Rip paused on his way up to the chair and tapped his comms. "Miss Lance, you may want to make sure you and the patient are secure: we're about to jump."

"Where're we going now, Rip?" Sara's slightly disgruntled voice echoed back through their earpieces.

"We're on the trail of a crashed Electra," answered Eve from the passenger chair she was locking herself into.

In the chair next to her, Ray raised a hand. "Wait, wasn't that..."

The ship jumped.


	15. A Time To Help

Sara had joined Rip, Mick and Eve on the bridge, leaving Ray in charge of the woman they had so far managed to find out anything more about than her name and the fact she was a speedster. Apparently she had done little more than introduce herself to Eve and boast about how she was going to get them both out of there before trying to phase through the cell's shielding and failing spectacularly. She had been unconscious ever since. Eve had talked them through a number of other little updates too, since setting up their new mystery guest in the medbay, but only once she had finished a blazing row with Rip that none of the other three had been allowed to witness. Sara had later noted, with mingled amusement and disappointment, the slight reddening of Rip's cheek. There was now a book running between her and Mick on whether it was from a punch or a slap. Ray would be _so_ disappointed in them.

"So they're really after _him_?" Sara frowned, her arms folded as she nodded her head at the Captain. "I would have thought he'd be Time Master of the year for the Pirates: we took out pretty much all their competition!"

"It's nothing to do with that," Eve assured her, leaning on the holotable with both hands. "And yes: it's just Rip they seem to be after, so if we do encounter them expect them to shoot to kill. Taking out his team weakens him, especially if they take out the strongest members first."

Mick looked at Rip. "What about the kid and the old man, and our new recruits: they safe where we left them? You sure we shouldn't be heading straight back there?"

"They can't know we've split the team," said Rip, shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the holotable. "Even if they do work out it was us on the station - which, given Gideon's interference with their surveillance systems and the previous escape attempt of Miss Wells, they are unlikely to do - they have no reason to go looking for the rest of the team at the Vanishing Point. We set ourselves the task of rescuing and regrouping all those Time Captains who could still be trusted. We have an opportunity to make good on that goal. Now, maybe we'll get lucky for once and they won't work out why there seems to be a handily coincidental series of computer glitches at the same time as the ladies' escape, but if they do they then have to work out how to find us. If they come up with some method that resembles the Chronos-based one that Doctor Palmer reverse-engineered, then they'll be following us. If they don't, they're hardly going to start looking at exactly the place we left from."

"Why not?" Sara chipped in. "I would. It's where you were going when you found the Acharon, wasn't it? Maybe you've still got things to do there. Or maybe they send one delegation there and another somewhere else. And another, and another. It's not like they're short of ships."

"You suggest we leave?" Rip challenged with a shrug. "We came here for a reason. A rescue."

"I'm aware of that," Sara shot back. "And no: I'm not suggesting we leave. I'm suggesting we get out there and get some rescuing done, so we can get back to the others faster."

"Duly noted," Rip winced. "The only other item to beware of is the fluidity of this timeline. We are further into the future than Vandal Savage ever reached, so all bets are off. Everything we knew of this era came from Oculus data that depended on Savage's survival. We don't know anything bar the barest of notions of the general geography. This projection shows a map of the area, according to Gideon's scans on approach. This seems to be the nearest settlement. Our landing site is here and the most likely crash site of our missing timeship is there. Our missing Captain, on the other hand, could be in either. I will take Mister Rory to the potential crash site. It's further away, so we'll take the jump ship. Captain Baxter and Miss Lance, if you would take the town."

"I know the ship better," Eve pointed out. "Shouldn't I be going to the crash site?"

"You may know the ship better, but both Mister Rory and myself are familiar with Time Master technology," countered Rip. "You are the only one who knows our target's face, and that will be much more difficult to spot in a well populated town than a deserted timeship."

Eve nodded the truth of this and turned to go. She paused when Mick cleared his throat.

"We just leaving Haircut here?"

"Somebody needs to look after our guest, Mister Rory," sighed Rip, also turning back to the table. "Besides, can you imagine his reaction when he finally gets to come face to face with..."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," acceded Mick with a chuckle. "That's the first time I've seen him go full fanboy in the middle of a time jump."

XXXX

Leonard lurked in the shadows of the colonnade. It was cooler there. He watched the fight progressing across the courtyard before him: Chey-Ara and her regal sparring partner. He and his little protégé had both been carried off, quite literally, to the palace so that the young prince didn't have to leave. Civil unrest was brewing throughout the city and Leonard had his own suspicions who was fomenting it. Hath-Set was back and trouble had followed him like a vulture follows a dying man. They had been obliged to leave Meryatum behind for the same reason. Nobody would dare attack the Messenger of Horus or his Chosen Child. A lowly prince on the other hand...

It didn't sit well with Leonard. Something was nagging the back of his brain. Something that had a name, if only he could remember it. He shrugged the feeling away. He would come back to it in his meditation that evening. With so many other names being dredged up from the furthest recesses of his mind, adding one more would surely be easier. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the fight. Prince Khufu appeared to have the upper hand. It was only to be expected: he had more experience and was on his home ground. The two broke apart and circled each other: Khufu strolling easily, unfazed by the competition; Chey-Ara crouched like a caracal, ready to spring.

XXXX

"So," mused Eve as she and Sara made their way into the nearby town. "Burning things is Mister Rory's speciality. Shrinking things is Ray's. Space Ranger Stein and his mechanic friend seem to be taking a holiday, same goes for whoever else was on the Waverider. That leaves you. The resurrected assassin. I get why Ray stayed around: chasing bad guys all over the timeline seems exactly the sort of thing he'd be into. Especially if he gets to meet a few heroes of his own along the way. I have no clue why the resident pyromaniac is still on the team, given how things ended when last we met. What about you? Why are you still here?"

Sara shrugged. "Same reason as Ray. Same reason as Stein and Jax too: they're still on the team, they're just on a side mission just now with one of our new recruits. And Rip's foster brother. Mick: well, he's not exactly the same guy you met. He's had a few lifetimes of torture and mind control to chew on since you last met him. He's here because he feels he owes us, and because I don't think he feels there's anywhere else left to go."

"Huh," Eve nodded thoughtfully. "I guess I know what that feels like."

"I'm sorry," said Sara.

"Don't be," replied Eve, her expression stony. "It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not all of it but..."

"Hunter dragged you all together in his little crusade," cut in Eve. "Hunter herded you to the Vanishing Point. Hunter ordered its destruction. The pirates that destroyed the one home I had left were after Hunter. Nobody else. He's the one I'm blaming. Not you. You just played the part he gave you."

"He gave me plenty of chances to leave."

The street before them opened up into a wide square. Once upon a time it might have been a market place. The clock tower in the centre was barely living up to its name, two of its adjacent faces being utterly destroyed and gaping cavernously. The other two clock faces remained, but their hands were still. Buildings around the square were in the same mixed state of shuttered disarray and destruction. Sara wondered how long it had been since Savage's war had ended here. A door opened to her left and her head snapped round at the noise. With a nod at Eve, she led the way over to the boarded up remains of what once had been a fancy restaurant. Noise seeped through the closed door. It was the noise of people. Lots of them.

Sara cast a glance at Eve. "Just in case: how are you with bar fights?"

XXXX

Rip brought the jump ship down a couple of meters from the edge of an apparently empty excavation half way up a hill. The ground was solid, but uneven. The slope of the hill made movement difficult; the scree on the hillside made silent movement impossible. Rip slipped, putting a hand out to the side of the jumpship to steady himself. Mick caught his arm and stopped his fall.

"Gideon, hurry up and do your thing," growled Mick, setting Rip somewhat more firmly on his feet. "Boss is having some trouble stayin' upright already."

"Opening hatch now, Mister Rory," replied the computer's voice through the comms. "The AI of the Electra is called George."

"Of course it is," muttered Rip, staggering slightly before reaching the now visible opening. He pulled himself up into the ship with a sigh of relief.

Mick snorted a laugh and followed him. "City boy!"

"Look who's talking!" Rip shot back, closing the door behind Mick.

"You found me in a city," Mick rumbled. "I liked cities back then: there's more stuff to burn and steal. Doesn't mean I was born in one."

"I barely went near a city when I stayed in the old west."

"In one of the flattest areas of America possible," added Mick with a grin.

"Humph," replied Rip, shaking his head and leading the way out of the hold. "George, this is former Time Captain Rip Hunter of the timeship Waverider. Are you there?"

There was a hiss and a whirring of gears somewhere in the distance. Finally a brusque male American voice answered them. "I am here Ex-Captain Hunter. Chronos. Please state your intentions and reasons for boarding this vessel."

"News flash, metal mouth," thundered Mick, shifting the weight of his gun in his hands. "Chronos isn't here any more. I am. Your ship is down and out for the count. Ours ain't. Your captain called for help. We answered. You might think we're the bad guys, but sometimes bad guys are the only good guys you get. Now where is she?"

"The Captain is no longer on board this vessel," sneered George. "Your so-called help is a little late. We sent the beacon into the timestream months ago. The Captain was forced to seek sanctuary in the nearest town."

"Ah, good: the ladies will find her," declared Rip acerbically, turning to leave. "At least she'll see one friendly face amongst the vagabonds."

"Speaking of vagabonds," intoned a bored voice in the distance. "There are those who believe it is time you make some payment for your crimes, Rip Hunter, and as head of my order it is my duty to bring you before them."

Rip turned back, listening to the footsteps echoing around the curving corridor. He glanced at Mick, who was already at bay: his gun trained on the shadows of the ship. Rip looked back and the footsteps stopped. He peered into the gloom but saw nothing. Mick fired the flame gun, illuminating the crash-damaged corridor in hellish hues. There was nothing there. A low laugh echoed out of the blackness. There was a chink: the noise of something small and metallic hitting the floor. The sound of rolling followed. A tiny thing, like a yo-yo with no string, progressed down the corridor and pirouetted to a stop by their feet. Both men peered at it in confusion.

"So predictable," sighed the voice.

Mick and Rip looked up.

There was a bright white flash of blinding light.


	16. A Time To Hope

The interior of the boarded up restaurant was lit by sparsely spread candles hanging in lanterns or illuminating one of two spars of an ancient rococo style chandelier descending from the centre of the ceiling. The occupants, hidden as they were by the darkness, seemed to sense the entry of strangers. It was subtly apparent by the way conversation came to a dead stop.

Sara cast her eyes over the crowd. In their dark, sometimes ragged, clothing they threw the overly curlicued and frivolous rococo interior into stark relief. She and Eve were probably the best dressed there. A glance told her that the female Time Captain had come to the same depressing conclusion. With a nod she signalled her intent to head to the bar. Eve replied with a nod of her own in the opposite direction and an eye roll Rip would have been proud of. Sara grinned. It did nothing to improve Eve's expression.

The bar held the usual mix of local custom, attached limpit-like to their stools. Sara edged her way into a space, smiling radiantly at the first barmaid to come her way. She was a slim, almost elfin figure, her short, curling hair glinting in the candlelight. Sara's smiled broadened.

"Well now," asked the barmaid, returning Sara's smile. "What can I get you?"

"A shot of your strongest stuff will do," smiled Sara, holding the barmaid's eyes. She tipped her head to one side and added: "for now."

She was met with a knowing smile and an empty shot glass. When the barmaid turned to reach for a bottle, Sara decide to chance her luck.

"You wouldn't make a girl drink alone, would you?"

"Won't your girlfriend mind?"

"She's just a friend of my boss," breezed Sara. "We're in town looking for a friend of hers. You wouldn't happen to have noticed anyone new hereabouts?"

"No newer than I am," shrugged the barmaid. "Not that I know about."

Sara leant forward, her arms folded conspiratorially on the bar. "I'm sure there's nothing goes on here that _you_ don't know about."

The barmaid leant forward, mimicking Sara's actions. "Doesn't change my answer."

"Didn't think it would," grinned Sara, now nose to nose with the barmaid. "But you didn't really expect me to just give up, did you?"

"That _would_ have been," the barmaid tipped her head to one side, "disappointing."

"You know I really think I should ask you some more questions," smiled Sara, her eyes flicking down to the barmaid's gently curving lips. "Is there maybe a back room or some place quiet we could... talk?"

The barmaid grinned, her eyes travelling down over Sara's face and back up. "There might be something of the sort. Course you'll be wanting to talk to some of the other folks round here too." 

Sara's smile shone. "Right now, the only person I want to talk to is you."

XXXX

All through the return journey, Leonard was restless. The itch at the back of his brain was growing. There was something. Something he hadn't done. Something he had forgotten. Something important.

Beyond the carriage, the landscape rolled by, jolting rhythmically with the steps of the bearers. He let his gaze sweep languidly over it, drinking in the cool air of the evening. The day had been a long one, his charge taking part in the little prince's history lessons and writing lessons as well as his combat training. Between the two of them, the children had run the poor scribe charged with instructing them in the complex glyphs absolutely ragged. By the time the servant arrived to inform the Horus of the Sunrise that his boss was sinking into the underworld, Herakhty was starting to think the pot-bellied little man was seriously considering the option of permanent exile!

XXXX

"And where exactly did _you_ go to?" Eve hissed when Sara joined her some time later.

"Me?" Sara's voice was all innocence. "I was just interviewing the barmaid. In depth."

"I bet you were," growled Eve, suspicion weighing down her voice like a lead balloon. "And where is this 'barmaid' you were so interested in?"

Sara extended an arm, her hand unfurling palm up. "By the bar. Where else?"

Eve looked at the bar, following the line of Sara's arm, and searched it for barmaids. At first she thought she'd already spotted them all, then she found the one that had definitely been absent earlier. She laughed. Sara frowned.

"Don't you ever ask anyone their name?" Eve chortled.

Sara's frown deepened. "She said her name was Mary."

"One of the most common names in this era," nodded Eve. "She's done her homework, I'll give her that."

Sara's frown of annoyance turned to one of puzzlement, then her eyebrows shot up. "So I just... Oh my!"

"Sara Lance," laughed Eve Baxter, "meet Amelia Earhart."

XXXX

The sun had set fully by the time they arrived; the hellish glare of the torches taking over as darkness descended, strengthening the illusion of their journey into the realm of the dead. Herakhty turned to the child by his side. She had drifted off to sleep long ago, exhausted by her day of warrior boot camp and typical teenage rebellion. Her head rested on Leonard's upper arm: unruly curls twisting out of their braid, as contrary as their owner. He gathered her into his arms and exited the ornate wooden box. A guard stepped forward to take Chey-Ara, but hastened back under the full force of Herakhty's glare. Leonard carried his ward up through the narrow, winding corridors of the temple, their guards following a deferential distance behind. The door was opened by a guard on duty there and he laid the child down on her bed.

In a second narrow cot nearby, Raia lay sleeping peacefully. Leonard looked her over. Her breathing was even and deep. Her frail body still bore the signs of her illness, but now at least he saw reason to hope.

Leaving the sisters, two more guards added to the contingent at their door, Herakhty picked his way back to his own chamber, as silent as a thief in the night.

XXXX

If there was one thing Sara Lance was good at, besides killing people, it was recovering quickly in awkward situations. When your dad's a cop and you are a teenage tearaway with a taste for bad boys, you kinda have to. She'd had rather a lot of practise. Nevertheless, the walk back to the Waverider had been tense: neither Mick nor Rip were answering their comms.

"They could have just switched them off at their end," suggested the eternal optimist, Ray.

"They could be under a pile of rubble," countered Sara, pouring over the 3D map on the holotable. "Especially if the damage to the Electra is as extensive as you say, _'Mary'_!"

"I think it's safe to drop the cover name now, Sara," grinned Amelia. Her grin faded as she looked back at the table and its map. "And yes, if they headed into the wrong area, in the wrong way, they could trigger a collapse. That's not the only danger, though. The land around there is unstable. There's no way you could land a ship as large as the Waverider near the crash site: you'd start a landslide."

"That much we knew," nodded Eve. "It's why we landed near town and the gentlemen took the jump ship."

"Yeah, but we don't need to land the Waverider," mused Sara, glancing at Ray then upwards. "Gideon, how close above the crash site can you get us without disturbing the scree underneath?"

"Hiding a pair of wings under that jacket, angel face?" Amelia teased, quirking an eyebrow at Sara.

"You know I'm not," grinned Sara, tipping her head to one side for a moment. "If the drop's low enough though, I don't need 'em."

"Even if it's not, I don't," added Ray, his eyes flicking between the two with an odd look twisting his features between curiosity and amusement, "and I can carry at least one."

XXXX

The chamber was cool and quiet when Leonard entered. Silver starlight filtered through the shuttered, linen screened windows, illuminating the room in the dimmest of half-lights. Normally such Stygian gloom wouldn't bother such a nocturnal being as Leonard. He had learnt the shape of his surroundings long ago, and found it useful to maintain the myth that he could see in the dark. Had anyone been watching, that myth would have tumbled with him.

His foot caught on something: something that should _not_ have been there. He landed sprawled across it. It was soft, warm and familiar. A body! Rolling, Leonard rose to a crouch and stretched out a hand experimentally. The obstruction was definitely a body. Whose?

XXXX

Sara rolled to a crouch, holding her position with as little disturbance to the scree as possible. Beside her, Ray and Amelia touched down, dislodging a mini landslide in the process. The hatch, still open and visible, lay before them like a portal to another world. Ray exchanged a nod with Sara and vanished, shrinking down and flying ahead, through the black rectangle of the door. Amelia moved to follow and Sara held out an arm, blocking her.

"Let him go first," she said, watching the doorway with an icy calm. "If there's any trouble to be found, he'll see _it_ before it sees _him_."

"I see it already," Ray's voice cut through the comms with a far darker air than Sara had heard for a long time. "I think you two should get out of here, ladies, just in case."

"Just in case what, Ray?" Sara snapped, irritated as much by the lack of information as the now rapidly multiplying worry over Rip and Mick. "What do you see?"

"Just in case I don't get this bomb defused and off Mick's chest before it detonates," Ray shot back just as sharply. "This is one for an engineer, Sara, not an assassin. I'll save him, or die trying."

Cold dread seeped upwards through Sara's body. Not Mick too. Since... Since the events at the Oculus, Mick had become maybe her best friend on the ship. He had made it his mission to look after her when she had been at her lowest. They all had, really, but nobody had pushed her quite so hard to take care of herself. Except perhaps...

"Ray?" Sara's voice sounded hushed through the comms. "Where's Rip?"

There was a pause on the other end of the comm link that made Sara feel as though her breath had frozen in her lungs.

"I can't see him," admitted Ray eventually, his tones equally quietened. "I haven't checked everywhere though. I found Mick and..."

"I know," Sara nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "I'm coming in. Tell me where you haven't searched yet."

" _We're_ coming in," corrected Amelia. "Neither of you know my own ship like I do. George!"

"Yes, Captain Earhart?"

"What happened here in the last few hours? Specifically, to the man with the bomb strapped to his chest and his companion on arrival here."


	17. A Time To Heal

Amelia led the way on to the Electra, with Sara close on her heels, while the haughty tones of the ship's AI detailed the story of Mick and Rip's arrival and subsequent encounter. What Sara found she hated the most about the tale was the way the AI kept referring to Mick as Chronos.

"Your AI's a bit of a pompous ass," she told Amelia when it stopped speaking.

"Why do you think I named him after my husband?" Amelia quipped, barely pausing on her way to the bridge.

They found Ray still working on Mick. He didn't look up. The Legends' favourite pyromaniac was sat, unconscious, in the captain's chair, silvery bands binding his legs, arms, head and shoulders. Ray's helmet and gloves lay on the floor beside him, his body blocking Sara's view of the bomb.

"You should go, Sara," rasped Ray, his eyes focussed on his task. "You heard the AI: the remaining Council members did this. They took Rip and left Mick here to die, probably hoping he'd take one or two of us with him. Let's not make that two or three."

"I'm _not_ leaving," she informed him, marching over to the pair and peering over Ray's shoulder. "I left Laurel in 2016. I left Leonard. I won't leave Mick. Let me see."

Ray edged sideways but didn't stop working. "Someone needs to go after Rip, Sara. There's nothing you can do here."

"You keep saying that," said Sara, reaching out to still Ray's shaking hands. "But you're missing something. This bomb isn't just a tech problem, it's an assassination attempt. An assassin set it up. Maybe you need to think like an assassin to shut it down."

Ray looked at her then, his eyes wide and hollow, his face grey. She met his gaze and nodded, moving him and his hands out of the way. A cursory glance had told her the bomb would not be easy to defuse, but a closer examination presented a possibility she knew Ray would never have risked until the very last moment, and only if no better alternative was found.

"Stand back," Sara ordered. "I got this."

Ray reluctantly retreated, letting Amelia lead him back and out of the way. Sara glanced at them and nodded to herself. She reached out to the wiring of the bomb and plucked out two blue wires. The steady beeping of the bomb intensified and accelerated. No turning back now. She touched the two exposed ends of the wires together, and the world went black.

XXXX

Herakhty rose like the sun in the morning. The guards beyond his door jumped at the sound of its sudden opening, standing to attention with eyes wide.

"You: fetch the healer," Herakhty ordered, his icily calm voice brooking no argument. "You: bring that light in here. You two: stay here. Speak to no one."

The guards scattered about their appointed tasks, the one with the torch following Herakhty into the darkened chamber.

The light shone red on the blood slicked floor. The flames danced their shadows across the pleated white linen of Meryatum's kilt. Leonard heard the sharp intake of breath from the young guard and removed the flickering torch from his trembling hand. He circled the room, touching the flame to the waiting staves in their mirrored sconces. Light flooded the room. Leonard hung the torch in the waiting cradle by the door and returned to his servant's side. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the blood that seeped into his own garments.

"Help me turn him," Herakhty ordered the shaking guard.

The young man dropped to his knees by the God's Messenger, decidedly less unconcerned about the blood than his master. Together they rolled the limp figure onto his back. A groan sounded from the body and the young guard catapulted backwards, spewing curses and invocations in equal measure.

Leonard's hand slid to his valet's throat. There was a pulse. It was faint, but it was there.

"Meryatum," he called, tapping the young prince's face as no other would dare. Perhaps no other but one, given the circumstances. "Meryatum. Merry! Wake up!"

"My Lord," Merry's voice was as faint as his pulse and twice as worrying.

"Where is the wound, Merry?" Leonard demanded, his hands searching the young man's bloodstained body in the flickering red half-light. "Who did this?"

The prince's hand met one of Leonard's and guided it to a damp tear in his side. "I did not see their face, my Lord."

Leonard's hand clamped down on the wound, putting enough pressure on it to elicit another groan from Merry. "No matter. I think I can guess. No, don't pass out on me Merry. Come on. Stay with me. We can fix this."

"I am sorry, my Lord," breathed Meryatum, his eyes rolling back in his head.

XXXX

The blue flash of electricity stabbed at Ray and Amelia's eyes, blinding them for a second. When Ray lowered his hand, the bomb was quiet and Sara lay unmoving on the other side of the room. He rushed to Mick, urging Amelia in Sara's direction. The mechanism attached to his friend's broad chest lay as inert as Sara and Mick themselves. He stripped it off, flying out of the room and returning seconds later without it. His A.T.O.M. suit made short work of Mick's bonds and the big man slumped forward. Only then did Ray look over to Sara.

Amelia was doing chest compressions.

Ray swore.

Crumpled in Ray's arms, Mick groaned. Ray propped him up in the chair and shook him. "Mick? Mick, can you hear me?"

"Haircut?" Mick mumbled, shaking his head and blinking. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me," confirmed Ray, his hands still on Mick's shoulders. I need to get Sara back to Gideon. Will you be okay?"

"Peachy. What's wrong with Blondie?"

"I think she gave herself a rather large electric shock when she shut down the bomb we found on you."

"She what?" Mick roared, stumbling to his feet and looking round for Sara. He spotted her and staggered over.

"I'll get her there faster," Ray assured him, dropping to one knee by Sara's lifeless form and nodding to a wide-eyed Amelia to move back. Both he and Sara disappeared, and a blue spark zipped across the bridge to the door.

Mick, leaning heavily on the ship's holotable, looked down at the newcomer. "So you're Amelia Earhart then? Mick Rory. I'm a big fan."

XXXX

Herakhty, Horus of the Sunrise, was aware of the dawn. No more than that. The garish glow of the fiery torches that had now burned right through the night was gradually washed out by the warm, steadily growing radiance of the sun. A bustle of servants hurried and scurried hither and thither about his chambers. He ignored them. He ignored the sudden change from torch light to sunlight as the shutters were flung open and the flames doused.

"My Lord?"

Herakhty looked round, his head moving independently of his body.

"My Lord," said Chey-Ara again, looking up at him with wide eyes, "what has happened here?"

"Who told you?" Herakhty asked, cold blue eyes sweeping over his ward and back to the figure on the bed. "I gave orders that you were not to be informed."

"You also gave orders that my guard was to be doubled," the child pointed out, "yet when I reach your door I find fewer guards than usual."

Herakhty laughed. It was a dry, humourless laugh, and it made Chey-Ara's wide eyes narrow in confusion.

"You always were clever," he murmured, his eyes growing distant and clouded. "Were? Will be?"

"My Lord?" Chey-Ara persisted, creeping round into his eye line, glancing over her shoulder at Meryatum, then meeting the Messenger's now steady gaze. It was focussed right on her.

"I think I had a dream, Chey-Ara," he mused, watching her like a cat watches a hawk. "I dreamt I knew you, years from now. You and Khufu. Full grown. The royal prince and the High Priestess of Horus. Warriors both. Fighting to protect the innocent. To save the world. To save each other."

"A noble dream, my Lord" she frowned, returning his scrutiny. "So why does it worry you?"

"I do not know," he sighed, his eyes shifting back to Meryatum. "I feel I should, but I do not. And there is much in this dream that _should_ worry me, yet it is not the source of my disquiet."

"What things?" Chey-Ara asked, stepping closer, blocking his view of Meryatum.

"You did not know me," he replied, eyes focussing on her again. "You barely knew yourself. And you had wings. The wings of Horus. You and Khufu. Your beloved."

The girl took a step back now. "I have no desire to be a princess. I do not wish to rise so high."

"You will rise higher," Herakhty informed her. "It is he who will rise to meet you."

"But Prince Khufu is my friend. He has no other interest in my. Nor I in him."

"And that may long remain the case," Herakhty nodded. "You are young. Mere children. But the friendship you both cherish now will, in years to come, become a love so powerful it will overcome death itself. A second Isis and Osiris."

"My Lord," Chey-Ara's voice shook and she eyed her protector askance, "is this a dream or a prophecy?"

"I do not know," murmured Herakhty. "I know evil will follow you. The same evil that visited us here tonight, last night, perhaps. I believe you shall overcome it in the end, but the struggle will be a long one, and will cost you dearly."

"What evil, my Lord?" Chey-Ara asked. "What harm came to my prince's brother last night? Will he live? _Does_ he live?"

"He lives," nodded Herakhty, drawing a hand over his eyes. "By the will of Horus, he shall continue to do so. At least if the evil one can be prevented from a second attempt."

"What happened?"

"A servant of Set attacked the prince in my chamber. I fear I know the name of such a one, but I lack the proof to accuse him. No man should be condemned without proof. Even at the word of such a one as I. Had we returned much later, I would surely have been too late and found my friend dead on my floor. But this villain is unpractised in his villainy. He does not know where to cut, or how deep the knife must go."

Chey-Ara shivered, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. "Do you know my Lord?"

Herakhty's eyes slid away, gazing out into the blue sky beyond. "I know much that makes no sense to me; although I feel that once it did."

Chey-Ara turned to cast her eyes over Meryatum's ashen form. The prince's breathing was barely visible. When she reached out to lay a hand on his brow, it was cold and clammy.

"Who did this, my Lord?"

Herakhty did not reply.

"My Lord?" Chey-Ara turned, but the seat her protector had filled was now empty, its gilded wood gleaming in the high sun. The dawn had passed. He was gone.

XXXX

Sara woke up in the medical bay, electrodes still attached to her chest; Mick, Ray, Eve and Amelia leaning over her. She felt like she'd gone ten rounds with a Mirakuru soldier. That was good. That meant she wasn't dead. She sat up and groaned.

"You're alive then," stated Mick, folding his arms and glaring at her. "Good, 'cause I have a thing or two you need to hear, Blondie."

Ray glanced over at Mick, hearing the suppressed ire in his voice. One look confirmed his theory. He caught Amelia's eye and nodded at the door. She plucked at Eve's sleeve and the three drifted silently out of the room.

"I hope one of them's 'thank you'," quipped Sara, wincing as she raised herself to sit on the side of the bed.

"Snart was my best friend," Mick began, his voice a low growl. "He was like a brother to me. When he took my place at the Oculus it messed me up. More than I thought possible. But he left me with a purpose, and that purpose pulled me through. To take care of his girl. I know what you were to each other. Even before you knew it. So that's my job. To keep you safe. To keep the team he _chose_ safe too, chose over me once, but especially you. Because he loved you. I don't know if he ever said it out loud, but he did. I knew that man almost his whole life, I never saw him fall for anyone the way he did you. So if it's a choice between you and me, Blondie, and one of us has to die, you need to know: I choose it to be me."

"I lost him too, Mick," she winced, looking up into Mick's eyes with a defiance her body was struggling to echo. "I lost Laurel too. And I'll be damned if I sit back and lose anyone else. Especially you."


	18. A Time To Hurt

Rip Hunter awoke in a familiar cell. It was a Time Master contraption, that was certain. A high pitched whine, just on the edge of hearing, gave away the presence of a force field. Rip ran a hand through his hair, stopping at the sore point on the back of his skull. There was a definite lump there. He must have hit something on the way down. He didn't remember what though. He _did_ remember the light. And what happened before it.

"Mick?" Rip wondered aloud, eyes protesting against the bright light of the cell.

No answer came.

Rip pushed himself up to his elbows and groaned. Was this queasiness normal after being knocked out by the Time Masters' favourite weapon? Or was that lump on the back of his head a concussion? If the latter, he would have to be careful of his movements for a little while. If the former, he suddenly understood why Sara was so hard on him in training. He'd used it on her twice more since the incident following Laurel's death, back in the early days of her grief. Both occasions would have resulted in impressive hangovers on their own though, had he and Mick not intervened.

"Mister Rory, are you there?" Rip tried again. His vision was finally clearing enough that he could register the emptiness of his cell, however. He was alone. At least for the moment.

He raised a hand to his ear, but his comms unit was gone. Rip sat up, wincing against new melodies of pain that sang through parts of him he had previously thought unhurt, and a few he had forgotten _could_ hurt, and took stock. He was alone. Completely. His gun, coat, holster, boots and jacket were all gone. The remainder felt uncomfortably as though it had been thoroughly searched. Perhaps someone was worried he had learnt more than how to block from his favourite assassin. Perhaps they'd just found the knife in his boot and decided to play it safe, just in case.

His cell was small. Smaller than the one on the Acheron, but not just as small as the one at the Vanishing Point. There was one narrow doorway... and nothing else. The walls, floor and ceiling were all solid and opaque. They appeared metal, but Rip knew enough of Time Master technology to know that appearances can be deceptive.

It wasn't much of a stretch to aim a small kick at the bottom of the doorway. A jolt of pain seared up his leg. So. The force field was electrified too. Ah. Joy!

Rip lay back down on the cold floor. It wasn't like he had many options. Nothing to do for now. May as well sleep while he could and hope his injuries weren't serious, They couldn't exactly do anything to him in here, and it is always easier to escape an inescapable jail cell when you're not actually in it.

XXXX

Herakhty's head spun.

No.

That wasn't right.

He wasn't Herakhty.

That was just a role he had played. A mask. A survival tactic.

So who was he?

He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears, the headache, the blurred vision, the nausea. He felt like he'd been clocked on the head. More than once too.

Where was he?

No.

Wrong question.

 _When_ was he?

XXXX

Sara was pacing. It was unusual for her to show such impatience, but she was angry too and that irritated her. Her 'discussion' with Mick had unsettled her, as had the 'conversation' they had had following the description of how she and Eve had found Amelia.

None of that had unsettled her quite so much, though, as her conversation afterwards with Amelia.

"Sounds like _you've_ got some issues that need resolving, angel face," the pilot had begun, sneaking onto the bridge in the wake of Mick's departure.

"And _he_ knows me well enough to get to call me out on them," she had snapped back. " _You_ don't!"

"No, I just know you well enough to..."

"You know what I mean," Sara cut in, but Amelia's point had been made and she altered her tone accordingly. "Mick is my closest friend here. Maybe anywhere. Only he and the _Captain_ get in my face about stuff. They know me best. That's all."

"Captain Hunter?" Amelia queried, unnecessarily. "You seem a pretty close trio."

"You haven't seen much of Mick and Ray then!" Sara quipped. She caught the look on Amelia's face and sobered. "But no, there's more of us than you've met. The rest of our team - Jax, Stein... _Vixen_ \- they're helping a friend. Same way we were helping Eve when we found Jesse, and you. Well, sorta the same. Here's hoping they haven't run into quite so much trouble. Mick and I are pretty close, but we mostly all get on now. Mostly. Rip's in charge, so he claims, so that's why he gets to boss me around."

"That the only reason?" Amelia asked. She had changed into her preferred clothing as soon as the immediate threat was over, and had been moving between the Electra and the Waverider transferring parts and tools and helping hands, currently in the form of Ray and Eve. Now she was standing there, back in the guise of a Time Master, leaning back against the office wall with hands stuffed deep into her trouser pockets. She had met the glance Sara had thrown her way and held it, raising an eyebrow in silent repetition of her question.

Sara had done a double take, glancing up and down over the costume she was seeing for the first time. It was the short jacket and nonchalant stance that made her stutter over her answer.

"I... Um..." Sara gave in with a frown. "What?"

"I was there when you realised he was missing," Amelia reminded her. "I saw your face. That wasn't just concern for your boss I saw. That was concern for a friend at the very least."

"Least?" Sara echoed, eyebrows rising. "Rip's my boss! Okay, maybe he's a friend too, but that's all! Believe me: I am _not_ planning on sleeping with my boss!"

"Huh," grinned Amelia, folding her arms over the closed bomber jacket and picking her way across the bridge to Sara. "I was just suggesting close friends, maybe even best friends. There was me thinking I had you all to myself too."

"You do, I mean you would, I mean..." Sara had sagged back against the holotable in defeat. "Mick knows me better than most because we lost someone we both cared about. Rip knows me better than most because we've both lost the people closest to us in this world. We're all broken, a little by loss, a lot by life. That's what the others don't share. They don't have that darkness in them like we do, so they don't get to wade in when the darkness threatens to take over. My darkness has been getting close to winning these past few months. If it weren't for Rip and Mick, I might not be here."

"Close friend then," smirked Amelia. "It's okay: you don't need anyone's permission to worry about him."

"I know," Sara had frowned. "I'm not. Rip can take care of himself."

Amelia had laughed and stepped backwards to leave, spinning on her heel then looking back over her shoulder at the door. "Uh-huh," she had said. "Once more with feeling, angel face."

XXXX

The man with no name shivered. One moment he had been bathed in the warmth of the Egyptian sun, now he was here. His linen robes covered him, but barely kept out the cold. The sky above him was bright with stars, and the ground below him reflected their sparkle in a thin covering of frost.

He looked around, taking in the monochrome of his surroundings as his eyes became used to the dark, and the time period.

Time period.

Where had that thought come from?

It was there on the edge of his consciousness, like a dream after waking. Who he was. Why he was here. _How_ he was here. If he could only focus.

A black shadow in the darkness attracted his attention. It loomed above him, blotting out the starlight and creating a skyline of its own. A wall. A wall with a figure on it. A voice called down to him. The words were familiar, but made no sense. Words he knew existed, but did not know the meaning of. The voice called again. This time he understood a little.

"Qui is there? Speak in le nom de Jesus Christ, notre Saviour!"

A third time the voice called down, repeating its message.

"Who is there? Speak in the name of Jesus Christ, our Saviour!"

"I am cold," the man with no name called back. "Help me, please."

Whispering transpired.

Not too long later, a door somewhere opened. Men crept out, swords in hand, and hurried to the unknown man's side. A blanket was wrapped around him. He was lifted up, onto a stretcher, and borne away. The movement made his head spin once more and, as the doors closed behind him, the man with no name passed out.

XXXX

Repairs to the Electra, once Gideon had been able to fabricate all the replacement parts and tools needed, had gone smoothly and swiftly, especially with four extra pairs of hands. To Sara, however, it took an age. Every inch of her gut was screaming at her to move. To do something.

Anything.

To say Eve had taken over in Rip's absence would be less than accurate. As the person known both to Gideon and to George, she had merely provided a communications link between the two ships. She just seemed, to Sara, to be doing most of the collating of decisions. It felt a little like she was handing out orders. It rankled.

Sara knew, when it came down to it, both Ray and Mick looked to her for leadership. She knew, if she made a call, they would back her. She also knew, though, that the call she wanted to make was the wrong one. Even after two days of solid repair work and Gideon's repeated assurances that even Doctor Palmer's reworking of Chronos' tracking tech could not pick up any clues, Sara still felt the urge to pick a direction and run in it. She had checked half the hillside for any scrap of evidence, high tech or low. She had ordered Gideon to expand her search parameters to their widest settings, and was surprised when she found out just how wide those were, but found nothing. She had even taken the jump ship back to the town and questioned more of the locals. Nothing yielded a hint to their captain's location. Eventually, she had come up with a plan.

But it was going to take all of them.

XXXX

The man with no name awoke. Daylight filtered into the long, narrow chamber in which he found himself. It warmed the colours around him a little, but not much. He sat up and groaned. The headache was still with him. The nausea too, but less so. The sound of hurrying feet brought his eyes up to meet the approaching form of a man. He was not dressed in the familiar white kilt or linen robes of Egypt. Instead his head, legs and arms were sheathed in a metallic fabric, and his torso covered in some kind of belted robe that reached down past his knees. White with a red cross. There was a familiarity to it.

"Welcome, brother," said the man. "It is good to see you awake."

"Where am I?"

"You are in the hospital of Saint John, within the walls of Jerusalem," replied the strangely clothed man. "I am he who called to you from the walls of the temple. My name is André. André de Montbard. How should I call you?"

"I do not know," frowned the man with no name. "I had a name, once. It escapes me. I am cold."

"I fear the winter night chilled you too thoroughly, my brother," smiled André, encouraging the cold man to lie down again as he drew another blanket over him. "It is unsurprising in the strange garments you were wearing. My brothers and I took the liberty of replacing them with something warmer. Do not worry: they are safe."

"Brothers. You called _me_ brother: why?"

"We are all brothers here," explained André with an expansive wave of his hand. "Brothers in Our Lord Jesus Christ. Brothers of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John. In my case, brothers of the Order of the Knights of the Temple. Have you truly no knowledge of your name?"

The man with no name shook his head.

"Then I shall give you one, that we may be better acquainted. As you are my brother in Christ, I shall give you the name of my brother in blood, Guillaume. He will not mind. He has no more use for it in this world, and it was on a night such as last that he left us."

"Guillaume," echoed the newly named man. "I will bear his name well. Tell me, brother, for I have no memory of my past either: what day is this? What year? And what manner of place is this, where the stranger is treated as blood."

"This day is Friday," replied André patiently, "the eighth day of November in the year of Our Lord one thousand, one hundred and twenty nine. It is fourteen years to the day since the death of the noble bishop Godfrey of Amiens, and the day on which I became a squire. This place is the hospital of Saint John, in Jerusalem, in the Holy Land. It is run by the Knights Hospitaller. They treat all in need. You need have no fear: you are safe within these walls."

"And outwith them?" Guillaume frowned, watching his new brother closely.

"Outwith the walls of the hospital, you are as safe as any other in the holy city. When you no longer require the care of the good brothers here, however, you will not be cast out to fend for yourself. If you wish it, you may claim sanctuary with my order: the Knights Templar. I have already spoken to my brethren about you. They will welcome you, have no fear. Should you choose to leave the city, I cannot answer for your safety. Danger haunts the pilgrim as he travels this land, and has done ere we liberated the city for Christ."


	19. A Time To Hunt

If two days of constant work had made Sara antsy, that was nothing compared to the trip back to the Vanishing Point. It irked her to think that this had now become, if not quite their base, their rendezvous. She couldn't argue with the logic of Rip's plan, though.

Rip's plan.

He had wanted to protect the wellspring, the one part of the Oculus that couldn't be destroyed. What better way to do that than to set a guard on it that could not be corrupted as the Time Masters had. Sara had argued that anyone could be corrupted. Rip had counter-argued that they weren't thinking of _quite_ the same kind of guards. And so the rebuilding had begun.

It hadn't been that long since they had left Stein, Jax, Amaya and Luke at the site. How much time _had_ passed, Sara wondered. A week? No less, surely. A day or two more, perhaps. Would they see much difference in the wreckage? How much of a change would Rip have expected?

Sara shuddered. It was too easy to start thinking of him in the past tense. Was it simply her fear of losing another friend that had her mentally preparing for the worst? Or was Amelia right? Did he mean more to her than that? Was he more than just her captain? More than an acquaintance, a team-mate, a therapist... a friend? Had she let him into that closely guarded circle of best friends? She shifted in the office armchair, curling her legs under her and resting her head on the back of it. He now knew - no, _understood_ \- almost as much about her as Ollie did. Or Nyssa. Or Laurel. More than Mick or Ray.

Or Leonard.

Yes, he definitely qualified for best friend status.

XXXX

The boot connected with his ribs. He _heard_ the crack. It wasn't the first. It wouldn't be the last. Another kick caught his kidneys. Blood dripped from a burst lip and one eye was swollen shut. Darkness was closing in.

He had learnt to tune it all out. The physical pain. The torrent of unmitigated hatred. He had learnt that there was no way to fight but this. That there were too many to take on alone, to escape from. He had learnt that all he could do was bear it and wait for it to stop. For help to come. For oblivion. He no longer cared which. They didn't care about breaking his body. They had already beaten him into unconsciousness numerous times. More times than he could count! Every time, he woke on a medical bay bed, strapped down while blue lights scanned and repaired him, ready for the next round barely hours later. He no longer knew what day it was. Perhaps it was no more than a day since his capture. It could just as easily be months. There was no way of gauging the hours of unconsciousness. The _days_ , perhaps.

But it was not his body they were trying to break.

XXXX

Guillaume stretched, easing out tense muscles. Light would be fading soon, and the bell would ring for vespers, but he had finally completed his daily chores and his time was now his own until then. Life in the Templum Solomonis was simple, but simple didn't mean easy. He picked his way through the temple. He had been assigned a small cell among the noviciates, and he was aware that his rescuer, André, wished him to join them officially. Perhaps he would. Perhaps he would join the other order in town instead. For all that Brother André had rescued him, it was Brother Antoine, of the order of Hospitallers, who had nursed him back to health. It was Brother Antoine who had sat with him each evening, patiently teasing out snippets of memory and writing them down. Names. Places. Dreams. At least that was what the good Brother thought they were. How could they be anything else? How could a man know the workings of the future? Or the past?

But Guillaume knew better.

He knew, somehow, somewhere, deep in his gut, that these were not dreams, not stories, but memories. Real memories. And if he did not record them, he would lose them. So that was what he did. Every afternoon, when his chores were done, he would retire to his room to use what light was left in the day. He would sit at the tiny desk, not reading but writing. Writing in a hand so fine and on paper so thin that he could one day keep the story easily hidden. He must hide it, he knew, and he must keep it with him always. He had made his plans. Now he wrote his tale. It was a strange and winding tale, and it began with a man.

A man called Leonard Snart.

XXXX

"It's suicide and you know it," Stein argued, pointing out the flaws in Sara's plan not quite as gently as Ray had when she first explained it on the journey back to the others. "By the sound of things, you were lucky to get Miss Wells out of there, let alone Captain Baxter, and you knew where they were being held!"

"We didn't when we got there," Sara shot back, holding her ground. "Gideon hacked the station's systems and found out. She did it once, she can do it again."

"Assuming, of course that there is anything for her to find," countered Stein. "You have no evidence, _none_ , that the Time Masters are working with the pirates. Even if they are, what makes you suppose they would take Captain Hunter to the same location? Who knows how many bases they have, or what time period they are using. Not to mention the foolhardiness of attempting to use the same trick twice..."

"It worked the last time..."

"Precisely my point! Do you not suppose these pirates will have spotted the weaknesses in their defences and closed a few of these loopholes?"

"Then we find new loopholes," Sara shot back. "We only came up with Eve's rescue plan _after_ we saw what we were up against! This time we at least have an idea!"

"Actually that previous plan: it was mostly Rip's idea," cut in Ray, raising a hand with a sheepish expression sidling onto his face. "At least the part he and I came up with."

If looks could kill, Ray would be dead twice over. Sara's expression darkened further when Martin decided to press home his advantage.

"You cannot deny, Miss Lance," he began, gesticulating in full professorial mode, "that in the wake of Captain Hunter's abduction we are now down not one but _two_ of our best tacticians. Would either of them have chosen this plan?"

Nobody needed to ask who the other one was. Nobody dared.

"They ain't here right now, old man," growled Mick, his arms crossed stubbornly by Sara's side. "One got himself captured, the other got himself dead. Blondie's still here, and she's the best we got. If she says this is the best call, it's the best call."

"More to the point," added Sara, mimicking Mick's movements, "it's the only call that has a shot. What's your suggestion, _Professor_? Sit around and wait for them to send a ransom note? Or return Rip's lifeless body to us? Or to do to him what they did to Mick? Send him after us as some brainwashed drone? Re-brainwashed, really!"

"I merely wish to ensure we do not all end up dead or drones in this enterprise," snapped the scientist, throwing up his hands and turning away. "We are no use to our captain if we are all in the same boat!"

Both Jax and Ray, standing a 'safe' distance from the argument gave the Professor a look.

"You know what I mean," huffed Stein.

XXXX

"Brother! It is good to see you!"

Leonard looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. He had not visited the hospital in some time, not since he had assured Brother Antoine that he would continue his regime of writing down all that he remembered. It was an expensive therapy, for paper and ink were scarce enough in the holy city, but the Templars had been generous. What they gave him he eked out with what he could earn. His chores at the temple kept him busy, but it had been noticed that he had an ability with engineering. When the crude machinery the Templars used in their endeavours failed, it was he who was now sent for. Likewise, should the blacksmith or carpenter find themselves in need of a keen eye, hand and mind, they sent for the mysterious Guillaume de la Muraille, and paid him for his services in whatever currency or goods they had spare. It was just such an enterprise that had brought him back to the good cheer of old Brother Antoine and the Hospital of Saint John.

"Brother," replied Guillaume, turning to greet the aged monk. "It has been too long."

"What ails you, Guillaume, that I should see you here again?"

"Can one friend not simply call on another?"

"Not as I know things stand at the temple," nodded the monk. He was a shrunken, little old man who had seen much of the world and forgotten little of his travels. Leonard had spent many evenings, when his mind was tired from their exercises, listening to the old man's stories. There was much to be learned of the world around him in those reminiscences, and he liked to know the world around him.

"You have me, Brother," nodded Leonard, pushing back his cloak to show a torn and bloodstained sleeve. "I caught it in the workings of our pulley system trying to clear a blockage."

Brother Antoine grumbled under his breath and drew Leonard to one side, away from the business of the hospital. "Come, talk no more of that now but show me your injuries, brother."

Leonard frowned. "Have I said something to offend you, Brother Antoine?"

The old monk ushered Leonard into a chair and flapped a hand at him to remain where he was. He hurried off, returning moments later with his box of tools and medicaments, and a wooden basin of water.

"Brother Antoine," began Leonard, but he was to get no further.

"Hush, boy, let me see," snapped the old monk, soaking a clean cloth in the water. "Here, here: give me your arm. There we are. Ah yes. Interesting. It looks worse than it is, but it will be worse than it was if you do not heed what I say." He rinsed the cloth in the water and removed the last of the congealing blood. From his box he removed a small flask, another clean cloth, a needle and some thread. He soaked the cloth from the flask, wiped the needle with the cloth and laid them down. Then he took up the flask again and looked up to Leonard. "This will sting."

"Noted."

The pain flashed through Leonard's arm like wildfire, but he did not flinch. His jaw tightened when the old man began sewing though. Spirits of wine flooding the cut seemed to be almost normal for him. The sensation of the thread tugging on his skin was what had brought a wave of nausea to his stomach. He held out his uninjured hand to the monk. "Here: let me do it."

Brother Antoine regarded him oddly, thoughtfully, for some moments, then passed him the needle. To his surprise, Guillaume showed no fear of piercing his own flesh with the metal. Indeed, to judge by his stitches, he was quite adept at the skill. Indeed, their proximity and pattern reminded him of other scars on the mystery man's body. A conclusion formed itself in the old man's mind. "You have done this before."

Leonard paused then nodded. "I believe you are right, Brother, but I do not remember when."

Brother Antoine inspected Leonard's finished work. He cast another dash of spirits of wine over the results and replaced the stoppered flask in his box, replacing it in his hands with a jar of ointment. "This will dull the pain and keep the wound clean. I will give you a small jar of it before you leave. Change the bindings twice a day, when you rise and before you sleep, and any time unclean waters penetrate them. Every time you do, wash the wound in boiled water, cover it in a layer of this salve, and rebind it with clean bandages. You will wish to wash your hands after handling the salve, believe me! You will not forget twice! When you wash the bandages, remember to boil them well, then hang them to dry somewhere clean and free from disturbances." Brother Antoine finished his ministrations, tying the bandage in place, then rinsing his own hands in the still warm water of the bowl. He packed away his things and rose. "Come. Walk with me. There is much we must discuss, and I do not believe I have shown you my herbarium yet."

XXXX

The three ships lingered on the edges of the space station's boundaries. They were all cloaked. A ship broke away from the labyrinthine structure and headed towards one of them. It passed by meters from the Endeavour's right wing.

"Klingons on the starboard bow, Captain," joked Ray over the comms.

"Klingons would be more predictable," muttered Sara, watching from the Waverider's bridge. "Think they've spotted you, Luke?"

"So far so good," he replied through the comms. "I see the hatch you docked at last time. It appears to be occupied."

"Yeah, I see it too," agreed Sara, "but the one that ship left isn't. Adjust planned co-ordinates to suit that one."

"I do love it when you boss me around," grinned Luke, following her instructions.

"Amelia?" Sara checked, glancing in the direction of the cloaked Electra.

"Adjusting," replied the pilot.

Sara nodded and looked over to Eve. "Take us in, Captain."


	20. A Time To Hold On

Rip's mind wandered to happier times. Miranda, urging Jonas to show him the picture he had painted on his first day at school. It was little more than a muddle of coloured splodges but he had exclaimed over it with such paternal enthusiasm that his son had laughed and run into his arms. He remembered the picture so clearly: a trio of messy figures and a blob. He had asked his son what the blob was and had been informed quite succinctly by Jonas that it was the puppy he would be getting for his birthday. All the while, behind her son's back, Miranda had been vehemently shaking her head. Rip had smiled and turned back to trying to work out which of the two taller splodges was 'Mummy' and which was 'Daddy'.

In his mind's eye the colours blurred and resolved themselves into bright lights. A fist connected with his jaw. Reality was re-exerting itself, and this time it was wearing knuckle dusters.

Flames flooded Rip's bleary vision. Was this some new torture his keepers had devised? Were they not content with merely pummelling his body into a bloody mass of broken flesh and bone? Now they intended to burn him too? He wondered if he would learn to recognise the smell of his flesh melting the way he had the tang of his own blood in the air. A flash of blue washed out the lights above him and the room started to spin. The last thing he saw before the welcome arms of unconsciousness embraced him was a figure in white.

XXXX

Leonard followed Brother Antoine through the narrow paths beyond the infirmary into the heart of the monastery. The Benedictine order, founded by Brother Gerard of Martigues following the liberation of Jerusalem in 1099, had built its monastery in limited space; but built it they had, complete with walled gardens joined on one side to the kitchens, refectory and Brother Antoine's compact herbarium. The old monk opened the door and ushered Leonard inside. Even in the heart of winter the complex mix of aromas of dried herbs and spices was enough to make him pause.

"Bit of a smack in the face, I admit," grinned Antoine, observing Leonard's expression, "but one gets used to it over time."

"I imagine there are very few things a man _cannot_ get used to," replied Leonard, in a tone drier than any of the room's occupants. "Given enough time, of course."

This reply did nothing to reduce the grin on the old man's face. If anything, it broadened it. He waved Leonard to a stool. Nothing so grandiose as a chair, of course. Brother Antoine, a member of the order from its very first days, took his vows seriously.

When the door was shut, the elderly monk took down a flask and two wooden tumblers. A splash of sweet, dark liquid was poured into each.

"Apple wine," murmured Antoine, handing a tumbler to Leonard. "My own brewing. I use it for my tisanes and tonics and such."

Leonard took the vessel and sipped appreciatively. He nodded his thanks and looked up. "Perhaps it's just my imagination, Brother, but I got the impression back there I said something to worry you."

Brother Antoine nodded. "It is true, I did pause a moment. But, as God is my judge, I ought not to burden you with an old man's nonsense and itinerant musings. Least of all these."

That made it Leonard's turn to pause. His eyes narrowed and he regarded the monk closely. "I have never judged you as one to talk nonsense, Brother. Speak plainly, I beg you. You can trust me: that I swear."

"I feel I may, brother," nodded Antoine, scrutinising Leonard's face thoughtfully, "but I must, nevertheless, warn you to keep what I tell you to yourself. I say this for your own safekeeping as much as my own. I would not wish to throw away my efforts restoring you to the health you now bear. These past few months we have spent sharing stories of our pasts have been a welcome change from the usual endeavours of an aged infirmarian. I do not want to lose another friend."

"Another?" Leonard began, but stopped short at the sight of a raised hand.

"Take care, brother," Antoine warned, "lest false words from false friends mar your tabula rasa and teach you to trust where you should fear."

"Now, Brother," Leonard drawled, leaning back against the wall with a smirk, "you and I both know my tabula ain't quite as rasa as all that."

XXXX

Rip awoke in the familiar clutches of a medical bay chair. He groaned; inwardly or outwardly: he no longer cared. A movement nearby told him it was the latter. A blurred shape leant over him. He heard his name. A gentle hand came to rest on his arm. Another brushed his hair back from his forehead. A touch so light he almost missed it. Almost.

A voice called his name again. A female voice. Miranda? The hands departed. Had he said that out loud? Other voices filled the void, clamouring for his attention. The shape disintegrated into the shadows. The light dissolved into darkness.

XXXX

The next time Rip woke, the lights around him were dimmer. He was still in a medical chair. His body still ached. Either they had done more damage to him than they thought, or they had woken him sooner than intended. Or perhaps they just enjoyed watching him suffer. That was a definite possibility. Yes, that was most likely it. He closed his eyes and willed the pain away.

There was that soft touch again, cool and gentle against his skin. He was aware of two hands folding around his own; of his hand being raised, raised farther than his usual restraints would allow; of warm lips pressed briefly to his scraped and bruised knuckles; of a woman's voice calling his name. It sounded worried. And American.

"Sara," he managed. His voice sounded foreign in his ears. "Sara?"

"It's me. I'm here. We're all here," the voice confirmed. "You're on the Waverider. You're safe. You're okay. You'll _be_ okay. Rip. Rip!"

He gasped for air like a drowning man, or perhaps one waking suddenly from a nightmare. "I'm here. I'm awake," he affirmed, blinking his eyes as open as they would go and looking round for Sara, his free hand closing over hers, anchoring him in this reality. His eyes found hers. There was concern in that blue gaze. Red-rimmed eyes filled with worry, fear, hope: all for him.

A clatter of feet heralded the arrival of the rest of the team and Sara straightened, dropping his hand and looking round. Rip's face creased, brows drawing down momentarily, but he pushed the concern away, making use of his new found freedom to sit up in the chair. He instantly regretted it. His head swam. A hand was soon directing firmly him in the opposite direction. An older, more masculine, and decidedly more authoritative hand than Sara's.

"You have suffered severe and repeated head trauma," Professor Stein was telling him. "Not to mention the plethora of other poorly healed previous injuries on top of your current ones. So far we have treated several fractures, a ruptured spleen and a highly advanced case of peritonitis. You appear to have been very seriously maltreated by your captors during your incarceration, Captain."

"He means they used you as a human piñata," supplied Mick in his low rumble somewhere nearby.

"Dude, you've been unconscious for like a week!" That was, could only be, Jax, thought Rip.

"Approximately eight days, Jefferson," Stein corrected. "A few hours lacking perhaps."

"The Captain was unconscious for seven days, twenty three hours, eight minutes and one second to be exact, Professor," corrected Gideon, and nobody tried to correct _her_.

"You're healing now though," Sara assured him. "You had us worried for a bit but..."

"Quite," agreed Stein. "Right now though, you need rest. Gideon has a drip attached already and is monitoring you constantly. If the pain gets too much..."

"Thank you, Professor Stein, I know how my own ship works," groaned Rip. He may be lying down but his head was definitely starting to ache again.

"Of course, quite right," replied a mollified Martin, backing off. "I think we should just leave you to your rest now."

"Thank you," murmured Rip, closing his eyes. "Thank you all. For rescuing me. For everything."

"What else were we gonna do," quipped Sara as the others filed out, false enthusiasm obvious even to Rip's weary mind. "This is _your_ grand scheme, remember."

"You make me sound so nefarious, Miss Lance," Rip coughed, in lieu of a laugh.

"Hey, I'm just telling it as it is here, Captain," and this time the smile in her voice was genuine.

As restful, healing sleep overcame Rip's senses once more, he felt a light touch slide over his hand and close around his fingers. He ignored the pain it cost him to interlace his fingers with hers. It was worth it to know she was there. To know someone was there. To know he was not alone.

XXXX

Leonard listened attentively to the old monk's tale; as he had listened many times before and as he himself had indeed been listened to. He wondered which of them sounded crazier.

Brother Antoine had been born, as his name suggested, in France. Chartres, to be specific. On his arrival in the Holy Land, many, many moons ago, during the first crusade, he had made the acquaintance of a countryman of his: a priest born in his own native city. The world was a small one, and growing ever smaller, when two such men of God could cross the varied ravages of land and sea, peace and war, church and state, and yet meet so. They had formed a bond, a bond that grew into friendship, and spent much of the intervening decades each in the other's company. The priest's name was Fulcher, and he was chaplain and chronicler of the king, then Baldwin the first. As he served the first, so too he did the second; but this time his official titles were all the applied. Where to the first Baldwin he was also companion and confidante, to the second he was a mere scribe and unwelcome memory of his predecessor.

Fulcher had been working on his third chronicle, but something more as well. He had been searching the archives of the first Baldwin's palace in the name of justifiable research, around the time of the last plague, when he had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. Antoine hadn't been sure at first, of course: the second Baldwin could be a hard task master. When the third chronicle was published, however, and Fulcher nowhere to be seen to take the credit, Antoine began to worry. When he found time to peruse the tome and frown at the unfamiliar literary flourishes as it neared its end, he became increasingly certain that something injurious had happened to his friend. He petitioned the king, but was not heard. A few days later, the announcement was made that the popular and well loved priest had succumbed to the recent pestilence whilst charitably ministering to its other victims in their final agonies.

Brother Antoine did not believe a word of it.

"I know for what he was searching, you see," explained the good Brother patiently. "I know what great prize had him burning the last of his tallow in Baldwin's archives."

"What, Brother?" Leonard asked, leaning forward with only the slightest sparkle of solicitude warming his cool veneer.

Brother Antoine turned and withdrew a heavily bound volume from the shelf behind him, then reached back, beyond the book, to a hollow in the stone wall. His hand reappeared holding a pair of rolled scrolls. He handed them to Leonard.

"He left these in my safe keeping a full month before his so-called 'death'," spat Brother Antoine. "I would not dare share this secret with any of my brethren; but the tales you and I have shared suggest to me that if I may entrust anyone with their contents, it is you. Perhaps you may even be able to unravel the secrets they hold better than either Fulcher or myself ever could."

Leonard took the scrolls and unrolled them carefully. The first he studied, by far the younger of the two, was scrawled in a cursive French script. Legibility proved more of a hindrance than language. The second he lifted and paused. The feel of the elder scroll was familiar in his hands, dredging up a memory he had not realised he had lost. He edged it open, listening to it crackle in complaint. He knew the sound as well as he did the feel. It was not vellum he was holding, or even parchment or paper. It was papyrus.

And its contents were written in hieratic.


	21. A Time To Sneak

Rip walked onto the bridge. A simple task. He was met with cheers and applause. Almost everyone was there, taking a break from the rebuilding that had continued in his absence. They had left their work on the Vanishing Point just to be here. To watch him walk onto the bridge of his own ship. To bear witness to his recovery. It had taken another week just to get him back on his feet. Literally!

He glanced around the room, nodding his thanks to everyone, leaning heavily on his stick. That would be with him for some time apparently. Finally he saw her, sitting on the top step up to the office, her back to the edge of the doorway.

"Hello," she smiled.

Rip's lips curled up into the unfamiliar guise of a smile. "Hello."

In an instant the spell was broken. Loud and irrepressible, Ray decided to hold forth on the progress made since their return. Rip turned to listen, leaning back against the wall of the office. The slight smile floated delicately across his features as he took in all the news: all the work that had been done to make his vision a reality. They weren't there yet, not by a long way, but they were getting there. These people, his team, his friends, whom he had dragged out of their lives and their times to build up something he had only recently had them tear down. He was grateful. Proud. Slightly amazed!

"It's amazing," he said, looking around the group gathered in front of him, "what you've all achieved here. We are well on our way to safeguarding the wellspring, the power that almost destroyed us, from anyone who would use it for their own ends. We have found not one but _four_ new allies, three of whom we managed to rescue with only the slight hiccup of my abduction and Mister Rory's being temporarily strapped to an explosive device not of his own making! Nobody died..."

Two pairs of accusatory eyes turned to Sara. She glared back at Mick and Ray with interest.

"...or did anything utterly reckless..."

Mick folded his arms at Sara and got a defiant pout back. Ray opened his mouth to say something.

"...or started any bar brawls..."

Ray shut his mouth. Sara's eyebrows went up and her expression became decidedly smug. Ray folded his arms and sulked.

"...or snogged anyone they shouldn't have..."

Ray and Mick both grinned smugly at Sara.

"...and bloody hell: you three managed the lot, didn't you." Rip swung round to turn a weary expression on an off guard Sara. "Who?"

Sara did try to look innocent. It didn't wash.

"Sara," warned Rip.

"Well, it's not a short story," she began.

"Yeah it is," contradicted Mick and Ray together, looking even more smug.

Sara sighed and narrowed her eyes at them. "Ray started the bar fight," she smirked.

"I needed a distraction!" Ray pleaded, holding his hands up when Rip's disappointed gaze swept his way. "For the guards! Back on the space station! When we rescued Captain Baxter and Jesse! Sara used herself as an earth wire to get Mick out of that bomb!"

Rip's eyebrows went up and he turned a resigned and mildly questioning gaze back to Sara.

"I was only dead for a little while!" Sara pointed out, her own hands raised now. "Gideon restarted my heart as soon as Ray hooked me up to the medbay!"

"Uh-huh, and Amelia?" Mick chipped in. He got a deathly scowl back in return.

An odd sound drew their attention back to their captain. His back was to the wall again and his head down. It took a while for the truth to dawn.

"Is he... laughing?" Martin frowned, finally feeling he had something to contribute to the discussion.

"Do ya blame him?" Jax chortled, sobering slightly when one of Sara's knifelike looks turned his way, and edging behind a silent and unimpressed Amaya.

Sinking down to sit on the opposite edge of the top step, Rip threw his head back and laughed hysterically.

XXXX

Leonard finished another day's chores at the Temple of Solomon and retired early to his cell. He listened at the closed door for a full minute before turning the key in the lock a child could have picked. He could have moved the bed over, but anything more would have aroused suspicion. Quiet as a cat, he padded to the opposite side of his room. Below the small table, arranged so that the afternoon and early evening light fell full upon it, lay an ancient flagstone, no different from the rest. Leonard lifted stool and table up onto his bed, avoiding the noise of replacing them on the floor until he was done. He reached under the frame of the bed and took out a long, thin piece of iron: the result of a trade with the city's second best blacksmith. The nascent crowbar fitted into the groove of the flagstone. Leonard bent his weight upon it. The flagstone lifted. There, in the centuries old soil below it, in a hollow of his making, lay a long flat box of lead. Sitting back against the wall, he removed it.

It had been an idea of his long before Brother Antoine entrusted him with the scrolls, but necessity was the mother of invention and their arrival in his possession had accelerated his plans somewhat. He lifted the lid and cast his eyes over the contents. The scrolls were there, safe and sound, as were his supply of paper and ink, each kept separate in their own walled off compartments. In the fourth compartment there lay a variety of trinkets he had picked up along the way. It seemed his skills extended beyond the practical ones the Brothers had been making use of. Skills he had remembered only in his dreams, but had found his hands remembered far more smoothly in the crowded city street. Skills he found himself putting into use more and more often in this holy city of secrets and lies. Somehow, secrets and lies felt far more comfortable to him than chores and church.

Not everything in the fourth section of the box was valuable. Many items were just the random pickings of fingers long out of practise. Many others would have been valuable to one kind of person, and one kind only: a crook.

Leonard lifted the papyrus scroll gently from its housing. It crackled as he unrolled it, but no more than usual. He unrolled and re-rolled the scroll to the spot he had last worked on, laid it down on the stone floor with a carved wooden chess piece - a knight - keeping it open. He took out his writing materials, closed the box and, using the lid as a desk, began to translate.

XXXX

Sara leant silently against the door frame of the medbay. Blue light scanned Rip's emaciated form. She frowned. Maybe it was the lack of layers, but he looked like he'd lost even more weight. She hadn't thought he had anything spare to lose! But to change so much in just a few days? Even if they'd fed him nothing but stale air and insults he shouldn't have lost that much. She was used to seeing him without the outer layers, both mentally and physically now, but he hadn't been _that_ bad before, had he? Yet how else could he look so frail now?

Rip stirred, the sedation Gideon had used for the last of his operations starting to wear off. It had been a serious one this time. One the team had taken the unanimous decision not to tell their captain about. Not fully, anyway. The list of injuries - the full list - had been a long one. There were fresh fractures to fix, old ones to re-heal. There were areas of inflammation that needed watching and damage that couldn't be fully assessed until all the breaks were reset and the swellings gone down. This surgery had included one such issue, made impossible to treat or even fully assess by a concussion, an inflammation of the occipital lobe, and the understandably elevated blood pressure of the patient. Gideon had had to put him on a cocktail of anti-inflammatories and beta blockers from the very day of his return just to get him in a state to do the scan.

"How is he, Gideon?" Sara asked quietly, anxious to get the discussion out of the way before Rip fully woke up.

"The procedure was successful, Miss Lance," the AI replied. "The berry aneurysm has been clipped and is no longer a threat."

"And long term?"

"The advances in treatment between your time and mine, Miss Lance, are such that I can guarantee no long term effects."

Sara nodded. Somehow, the task of informing Rip of his true condition had fallen to her, and it was a weight off her shoulders to hear the worst issue was now a matter of history. "He okay for what we discussed?"

"In the circumstances, I believe it will do no harm. There should be no negative interaction with his medication, as long as you wait until the effects of the sedation wear off completely. Once he is fully conscious I will fabricate the beverage in question, but I would ask you not to be too liberal in your... Customisations."

XXXX

Rip was sitting up when Sara returned with two mugs. He looked from her face to her hands and back.

"I'm not sure chilli is the best thing for chronic headaches," he murmured, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully. "I appreciate the gesture though."

"No chilli," said Sara, handing him a mug and leaning on the side of the medical chair. "This one's _my_ secret recipe, or Grandpa Larry's, anyway."

Rip sniffed experimentally at the mug and took a sip. His eyebrows went up. "Are you sure I should be drinking this?"

"Gideon has given her blessing," replied Sara, holding up her spare hand in mock surrender. "Besides, I know she's monitoring you. She'll cut us _both_ off if she thinks I've given you too much!"

"It's not Scotch, or rum, not that we have any of that..."

"Bourbon," grinned Sara. "Thank you present from Amelia."

"Ah," Rip nodded. "I'm glad you found her."

"So's she," smiled Sara, but her smile was beginning to fade. "How's the headache?"

"A refreshing change from the one you lot usually give me," quipped the captain. He saw the look Sara was giving him and relented. "It's there. It's sore. It's annoying. I can manage though."

"Listen, Rip, there are a few things we need to talk about," began the ex-assassin, staring down into the depths of her mug.

"Okay," said Rip, dragging the word out quietly. "Why do I feel you're about to tell me I'm dying?"

"No! No, you're not!" Sara blurted, looking up with wide eyes that gave away everything before she even opened her mouth to continue. "You're not. Though really, I guess, I should say 'you're not... any more'."


	22. A Time To Weep

Winter dissolved into spring, the sun gently warming the land as its arc rose higher and higher with each and every day. For the military monks of the Templum Solomonis, and all they sheltered within their walls, the hours of the day lengthened. For Leonard that extra time between nones and vespers, the hour of sunset, made his private chores all the easier. It was mid March by the time he had finished translating the papyrus. After that, translating the scroll written in French was easy. It was an attempt at translation of the hieratic, possibly made by Fulcher himself, but it was incomplete. The author had known little of the writing and less of the language. As false as its conclusions were, however, it made interesting reading for Leonard. It seemed to direct the reader to exactly the area of the temple Leonard's alleged protectors had set up their excavations. They were digging where the wrong scroll said they should dig.

Leonard looked over his translations thoughtfully and cast a glance at the lengthening shadows. The bell would ring soon for vespers. All avowed men in the temple would proceed to the service. That was almost everyone. Most of the rest were transient workers who came in daily to do a job for the brothers, and be paid in the familiar coinage of the Byzantine or the Saracen, then left at dusk. There were no women allowed within the temple walls. What few men were left generally joined the brothers or retired to their cells. Leonard had attended the service himself often enough to have an idea how long it lasted. He would have time enough to take a look at the area, see what needed doing, before anyone else appeared on the scene. Time enough to match the landmarks to those mentioned in the hieratic text.

Time enough to start making plans.

But not for a little while yet.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the stone wall. His dreams still came to him. Every night they came to him. Every time he called them they came to him. But the images were fading, growing fuzzier around the edges, blurred. He focussed on one: a favourite he liked to try and keep his hold on. He let the chill of the stone and the evening seep into him, and remembered a time when they would have felt like warmth, when the tiny, fragile, frost covered form beside him broke through his mask, his walls, his cool. He focused on the feeling of her, huddled beside him, wrapped around his arm, closer than anyone had any right to be. All through necessity. He remembered the warmth flooding back into the room. Into them. He remembered lifting her to her feet, holding each other up on still shaking legs. He remembered wrapping his arms around her, holding her closer than he had anyone for a long time. The warmth seemed to return slowly to their bodies, but maybe he was simply focussing too much on that part of the memory: on holding her in his arms, and feeling her arms close around him. He recalled the sensation of her body pressed close to him, the scent of her skin, the nearness of her usually rose pink lips, still pale lilac from the cold. How he had yearned to warm those lips with his own. The temptation had burned through him, dragging his mouth towards hers. Then an invisible voice breaking through the moment, demanding their attention, informing them their comrade had fallen and was in need of aid. And they had parted. And he had missed her warmth.

Leonard raised a hand to his cheek, surprised to find it damp with tears. The memory had left him a tangible reminder of its presence. Its reality. It had also left him with the memory of a name.

"Sara."

XXXX

"Should you be drinking that?" Sara teased, silently stepping round the edge of his armchair. She leant back on the desk and raised an eyebrow at him, reiterating the question in a more serious vein.

"I have been cleared by Gideon, if that's what you're asking," replied Rip, raising his glass to her without raising his eyes.

"Talk," she commanded, folding her arms in front of her and staring him down in silence until he finally looked up and met her gaze.

"Ugh," he shrugged off her stare and got up, crossing the room with his back to her and the glass forgotten on his desk. A hand ran through his hair automatically. He could _hear_ her waiting. Patiently. Stubbornly.

It was what he would have done.

"Believe me Miss Lance, this is not a can of worms you want to open."

"When did I go back to being 'Miss Lance' in here?" Sara persisted, stepping closer one foot at a time.

He turned to throw a weary look her way and she stopped. She smiled. His eyes rolled and he turned away again. Her smile became a grin.

"Oh, I see. So I'm 'Sara' when you want to talk, 'Miss Lance' when you want to push me away." She took another step closer. "Nice try. Not working.

"There are some things I would rather not discuss with my crew, thank you very much," he retorted, but he didn't go anywhere.

Sara stepped closer again. "There's plenty I'd rather not discuss with my boss," she reminded him, her voice as soft as a feather. "In here, I discuss them with _you_. In here, every night, at least when we're both here and whole. That's what we do. We come here and we talk. Mostly, I talk. Now it's your turn."

"Sara..."

"I've seen you hit a low before."

"Not like this."

"So tell me. Talk to me," she stepped closer and he turned to her. His eyes were red and hollow, like the very life had been drained out of him. "You don't have to keep things to yourself any more, Rip."

Rip looked away, one hand toying with the items on the central desk. "I was there, you know, when we rescued Captain Baxter and Miss Wells."

Sara blinked. "I know, I was standing right next to you for most of it."

"No, you weren't," Rip frowned, still not looking up. "You were there with a younger version of me. They came and told me. Told me their prisoners, their _bait_ , had been rescued by a shrinking man and a white clad woman. Asked me if they were friends of mine, as if they didn't already know. Asked me why, if they were my friends, had they left me behind. They tried to convince me you had all abandoned me. But it didn't work. Quite the opposite, in fact. You see _that_ was when I worked it out. Up until _then_ , I really was starting to believe you had all given me up for dead. That maybe you hadn't reached Mister Rory in time and thought us _both_ lost in the explosion."

"Rip," she whispered, realisation dawning.

"They had taken me back in time so that they could torture me at their leisure. You wondered how there were so many badly healed fractures? Because they'd had time to heal badly. They used their medical bay to fix me, but only enough to keep me alive and conscious. They dragged me out of my cell only to beat me senseless. They taunted me every moment I spent awake in that cell, they took turns to beat me to the brink of death, then they brought me back only to face it all again and again. Every time I close my eyes I hear them. What sort of Time Master abandons his calling? What sort of hero kills hundreds? What sort of husband abandons his wife? What sort of father abandons his child?"

He stopped, his voice shaking, and turned away.

"You didn't abandon anyone," began Sara, stepping closer and stopping when he turned on her with a look.

"But I did," he stated, his voice as flat as a river before the dam bursts. "And I was so caught up in feeling sorry for myself, I didn't even know what day it was until Doctor Palmer mentioned something." He looked down, his eyes closing against her steady blue gaze. "Today, in Gideon's timeline would have been my son's tenth birthday."

"You can't blame yourself for losing track of time, Rip," scolded Sara. "You were kidnapped! Tortured! Nobody could go through that and come out whole! Believe me, I know! Nobody _should_ go through that!"

"Oh, I don't know," he mused, and the resignation in his voice cut her like a blade.

"Don't you dare!" Sara warned, closing the distance between them a little bit more and wagging a finger at him. "I _know_ where you're going with that thought and you did _not_ deserve this!"

"Didn't I?" Rip murmured calmly, his gaze still stuck on the floor.

"No!" Sara yelled. This time he looked up, and when he did the raw pain in his eyes hit her like a gut punch.

"I abandoned him," sobbed Rip, leaning back against the desk as if without it he would collapse, crumple into a shapeless heap and never get up again. "I caused his death, abandoned him to it and now I have almost forgotten what was one of the happiest days of my life! The day he was born! The day I first held my son in my arms and swore to protect him with my life. To keep him safe, and happy, and loved..."

He trailed off into tears and Sara surged forward, wrapping him in her arms. "You did everything you possibly could," she whispered soothingly in his ear. "More than anyone else ever could have."

"No, I didn't," he gulped, his arms not daring to return the fierce hold of Sara's, keeping him anchored in the present. "It should have been me. I should have been the one to knock Ray out, not Mick. If I had..."

"If you had, we would never have gotten Kendra and Carter back," Sara told him firmly, not once loosening her hold on him. "If you had, we would never have got rid of Savage's meteorite. Any of Savage's meteorites! We would never have started trying to rebuild the Time Masters. We would never have rescued Eve, or our mystery girl through in the medbay. I've lost count of the number of times we've needed you. The number of times the _world_ has needed you. The world still needs you, Rip."

Somewhere around the middle of that little speech, Sara had felt his arms settle around her. When she reached the end of it, she felt them tighten around her, holding on to her with everything he had. He was still crying, she thought, still focussed on the past. That was okay. She had been living there for long enough and he had pulled her out of it. She could keep his body anchored in the present while his heart and mind looked backward for a while.

"Miranda said something very similar to me once," he offered, eventually. "When we were caught and she resigned. I was angry, upset really, that she'd beaten me to it. She told me then that the Time Masters needed me. I wonder now if that was her or them talking. Back when I took the meteorite to throw it into the sun, I hadn't meant to come back. I was going to fly it into the sun: me, Gideon, the Waverider and all. I passed out. Thought that was it. Then I saw them. Miranda and Jonas. I saw them, as real as anything I see now. And I held them. Kissed them. That was when those words came back to me. That was when I woke up. That was when I decided to go on. To go on without them. To say goodbye."


	23. A Time to Train

"We should be out there, looking for others to recruit," Rip huffed, ducking out of the sweep of Sara's bo.

"Not until you're fully fit," said Sara, turning the staff in an easy arc and bringing it down to be caught on Rip's. "It's taken long enough to get you back to this point. If I let you go back in the field and there's fighting..."

"I had _one_ minor meltdown..."

"You had a major meltdown that, had you not been in here training with me, could have caused serious problems out in the field. Amelia and Eve are on it. Don't worry. Luke's happy to have the extra hands and there's always work here that needs doing."

"You don't _all_ have to treat me with kid gloves," he assured her, catching another swipe. "A child could train faster than this!"

"You haven't seen Jax try to use this thing!" Sara laughed, but she increased her speed and the force of each strike, and was pleased to see her pupil keep up with her.

Rip's staff caught her behind a knee and she staggered.

"Oh, you do _not_ want to take me on, _Captain_!" Sara joked, catching a counter strike coming in the other direction.

"Are you sure about that, Miss Lance?" Rip grinned, blocking one attack and dodging a second. "If I don't at least _try_..."

"You'll never have the pleasure of being knocked flat on your ass by the White Canary," Sara finished, smirking.

"Hah!" Rip scoffed. He knew she could beat him. Of course he did. That was why he hired her. He also knew that, unless he pushed her, she wouldn't try. And he needed her to try. He needed her to stop treating him like he might break at any second. He needed her to push back, like she always did, like she always had done, keeping him sharp. Making him better.

Her attacks increased and he matched her, waiting for opportunities to fit in an attack of his own and taking them as they came. This he could do. This he was okay with. Hand to hand combat might be another issue, but for now: that could wait.

He ducked and rolled, bringing his staff round to catch her at the back of the knees again, this time collapsing both. Sara hit the floor and rolled onto her back. Rip stood and offered her a hand up.

He really should have seen it coming.

In seconds he was flat on his back with Sara pinning him down. She was smirking at him.

"Note to self," he groaned. "Never be nice to your opponent!"

"Glad that's one lesson you've learned today," grinned Sara. He met her eyes sardonically and she laughed. Her laughter faded when she realised he hadn't looked away. She blinked back to the smirk. "So, since you're not going anywhere without my permission right now, how about letting me in on those plans to find Rex?"

Rip's eyes searched her face. For what? Whatever it was, he seemed to find it, or at least go on without it. "I think I can say without a shadow of a doubt, Miss Lance, that you will utterly hate this idea."

XXXX

Getting down to the level of the first temple wasn't exactly difficult. Every monastery has its cellars, even the re-purposed ones. Even getting past the cellarer wasn't too hard. Every monk has his duties, but one of them was attendance at the various masses and services throughout the day. The Templars were not exactly your average order, but they were based on, and had the backing of, the teachings of Bernard of Clairvaux: one of the great Cistercian monks of the age, and someone who respected the rule of Saint Benedict. The monks worked hard at their separate duties, whether priest, knight or lay brother, but all prayed together. No: the difficulty was keeping the work undetected.

Leonard had found the spot easily enough in the cellarer's absence, but he knew the brother well. This was no fat, drunken friar of fairy tale mythology. Brother Odo was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged Parisian who took his turn at the archery butts with the rest and spent his spare hours in improving his mind. The boy who helped him with his tasks was a bright one, even at what Leonard thought to be just ten or eleven years of age. His hours of labour were repaid by hours of diligent learning at Brother Odo's knee. There were few enough in this world who had such a chance at education, even if it meant hauling baskets and barrels of food and drink from place to place, and learning the ways of preventing, and checking for, spoilage while learning your letters. The boy always attended services with his monastic guardian, but a few small tests - a cask moved an inch this way, a ham hung the wrong way round - had shown Leonard that it was the child, Astralabe, that was the more observant of the pair. The crook would either have to find a way to win his favour, or avoid the boy's detection altogether.

XXXX

"I hate this idea," Sara sing-songed, following Rip into his office after breaking the 'plan' to the rest of the team. It was not the first time she had said it.

"I know," smirked Rip, flicking through his collection of records. "You might have mentioned it _once_ or twice."

"It's too complicated," she persisted, folding her arms and standing her ground.

"It really isn't," he grinned, not looking round.

"Why can't we just go in there, walk straight up to him and tell him the truth?"

"You know perfectly well why," sighed Rip, leaving the records to drop down in the chair beside them, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles with patiently smug expression. "Rex's cover for his mission with the Justice Society must be protected. We can't just _waltz_ in there and announce his presence and ours for all the world and his aunt!

"Fine! Why can't we send Ray," Sara continued, rolling her eyes at the deliberate pun and waving a hand in the direction of the now empty bridge. "He can shrink down and get in there without anyone noticing!"

"And he will, but not to forcibly abduct the newest member of our team!" Rip laughed, enjoying this far too much for Sara's liking.

"You just wanna embarrass me," she accused, pointing a finger at him.

"Nothing of the kind, I assure you," said Rip, holding up his hands in surrender. "I did warn you you wouldn't like the plan."

"It's not that I don't _like_ it," breezed Sara, folding her arms again. "It's more that I can't see why it's necessary, or how it can possibly work. Nobody's gonna believe this tale you're spinning!"

"And you don't like ballroom dancing," Rip smiled. "Or maybe you just don't like dancing with me?"

"It's _not_ that I don't like it," Sara repeated, aware that she was starting to sound petulant. "And it's nothing to do with you. I just can't do it!"

"You managed perfectly well before," shrugged Rip.

"For all of two seconds," Sara pointed out. "Once round the dance floor then off to kick some mercenary asses doesn't really count! What you're talking about is... It would have to be in time! It would have to be choreographed! We'd have to _practise_!"

Rip nodded. "We would. Which means you would have time to learn. Let _me_ teach _you_ for a change."

"It this to get out of training?" Sara frowned, knowing she was running out of arguments. "Because you're not getting out of training. You do know that, right?"

"And I was _this close_ to beating you too," teased Rip, holding up finger and thumb to illustrate just how close 'this close' actually was.

"No you weren't," lied Sara smoothly, aware that she had found herself questioning recently just who _would_ have won that face off in Star City had their Captain been the kind of man to try and win an argument the way _she_ had suggested. "And until you can, in _every_ discipline, you need to be in that training room every day. Especially now."

"Won't you get bored of manhandling me all day?" Rip teased. He saw her expression and laughed. "I am not suggesting anything of the sort. I know very well how important it is to keep training." He got to his feet in one fluid movement and sighed, his hands on his hips and his eyes downcast as a frown crossed his face. "Especially now. Now do you have any real concerns or are you just trying to avoid the dancing?"

Sara closed her eyes. She did have one worry, besides the ballroom. The rest of the team were long gone, though and it could do no harm to voice it now. A series of small sounds told her Rip had moved to stand before her. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Something in the way he held her gaze told her he already knew what she wanted to ask.

"You just asked Mick to punch you," she said softly, a hand coming up to stop just short of his jaw. "The crew, they don't know..." Sara's voice petered out, her eyes drifting over his face, remembering the bruises. She felt his hand touch hers and gently bring it to his cheek. Her eyes flicked back up to his. "Rip, I was there the first day we started training again. I know why we moved to weapons instead of hand-to-hand. I saw your reaction. What if you react that way again? Will you be okay?"

"Doesn't matter if I do," breathed Rip. "I'm _supposed_ to be scared of Mick. I'm _supposed_ to be playing a role. As far as the crowd are concerned, I'm just the former. As far as the crew are concerned, I'm just the latter."

"Rip..." Sara let her hand fall and he caught it, interweaving their fingers as he had the first day he fully woke up.

"I'll be okay."

XXXX

"Oh, for goodness' sake, it's quite simple!"

"Yeah, for you maybe!"

Sara stormed out of the empty training room Jax and Rip had modified for their use. Had there been a swinging door she would have slammed it. The man was infuriating beyond belief. Instead of letting her go in alone, or with Mick or a miniaturised Ray, he had concocted the world's most ridiculous plan that involved all of them and especially her. So now she had to spend as long as she could stand every day taking dancing lessons from the universe's most irritating teacher, then try _not_ to take revenge in the combat training room later on because that would just be petty and cruel and if he happened to trip over her bo a couple of times she could _hardly_ be held accountable! Just because Future Rex had told them that was what had happened before. In his timeline. But they weren't travelling in his timeline now!

The Rex from this timeline knew nothing of this plan. Or them.

In her opinion, the Rex from the other timeline hadn't told them enough to make sure they got it right. In Rip's, he maintained that simply following his own instincts, as he had ostensibly done before, would lead to the same result. And he had actually used the word 'ostensibly'! Who uses the word ostensibly these days?

At least they knew what he looked like.

That was about it.

"What'd he do now?" Mick rumbled as Sara marched into the kitchen and found a cupboard door to slam. "Step on your tootsies or give _you_ a hard time for trampling all over his?"

"If he doesn't want me to get dizzy he shouldn't keep turning us round in circles," she ranted, banging a drawer shut. Frustration abating, Sara turned to lean back against the counter and fold her arms. "He still thinks all we need to do to get this Rex on our team is go with what was apparently _his_ plan first time round. If it worked then, it should work now."

"Sounds about right," nodded the pyro. "While you're over there giving Gideon a headache, pass me the black pepper."

Sara sighed and handed the spice over. "When did you get so big on cooking, anyway?"

"They make you take classes in juvie, you know," murmured Mick, stirring the steaming pot. "Stuff they think'll get you a job on the outside. A 'real' job. I ain't much for words or numbers, but this: this I could do. This I was good at. Didn't bother with it much before this all happened. Take out was always easier and life wasn't exactly settled. Then came this and Chronos. No offence to Gideon but a hundred years or so of fabricated muck makes you think about stocking the fridge."

"None taken, Mister Rory," chimed in Gideon.

"Anyway, should I dish up one plate for you or two?"

"Two?" Sara frowned, one eyebrow raised, and folded her arms.

"One to eat and one to throw at Rip," he replied with a chuckle.

Sara wandered over and peered down at the luxuriantly bubbling sauce Mick was stirring. "What is it?"

"Lasagne, or it will be."

"Nah, I like lasagne," she grinned. "I wouldn't be so cruel. Plus, there would be the mess to clear up."

"Ah, yes," grinned Mick in return. "Forgot about the mess."

"What mess?" Ray enquired, walking in and heading straight for a particular cupboard. He pulled out a loaf of sliced bread.

"If you turn up to dinner saying you're not hungry, Haircut!" Mick growled, without so much as looking round.

"Well, how far away's dinner?" Ray asked, hand paused halfway through drawing out two slices.

"An hour, tops," warned the older man. "No sandwiches."

"Aw, just a little one?" Ray pleaded, big brown eyes getting visibly larger even though Mick knew better than to look round.

Sara saw Mick roll his eyes and stifled a smile.

"One slice," relented the amateur chef, "and if you don't eat this..."

"I know, I know," Ray sighed, dropping a slice back into the bag and putting the loaf back in the cupboard. "I'll eat it! I promise! Now what mess?"

"Mick offered to let me throw a plate of food at Rip," explained Sara, "but we decided the mess wouldn't be worth it."

"Why are we throwing food at the captain?" Ray frowned.

"Not we, just Sara," rumbled Mick.

"You were _there_ when he told us his plan," Sara began, watching Ray as he selected fillings for his half sandwich. "Were you even listening to it?"

"Well, yes, most of it, why?"

"And you don't think he's crazy?" Sara persisted.

"It worked before, didn't it?" Ray shrugged. "Or it will have worked before. Will work before? Will work then?"

"We don't know if that timeline is still in place this far, or at all even," she pointed out.

"We don't know that it isn't," pointed out Ray in return. "Besides, after Future Rex vanished from our timeline, all our actions would have gone on as we'd planned in the first place, without his interference. He was only with us long enough to make the anti-virus, and he made sure we stayed in the temporal zone for as much of that as possible. Plus he told us next to nothing about the future he'd experienced, beyond how we set off Druce's virus and how to stop it killing everyone on board. I think it's safe to assume..."

"When was anything 'safe to assume' on this ship?" Sara cut in. "Just because we camped out in the temporal zone for the three of you to work on your miracle cure doesn't mean things didn't move out of synch with the previous timeline. We were in the temporal zone or the vanishing point for the entirety of the time between Savage taking Kendra and murdering Miranda and Jonas, and we still didn't get there in time!"

"That was because Rip had been there so often to try and save them!" Ray argued. "There was nowhere left in that part of time that it would be safe for him to go!"

"There's a little more to it than that..." Mick began.

"Not the point!" Sara continued right over him. "The point is we don't _know_!"

"No, we don't," agreed Ray, "so we have to go with what we do!"

"Ugh!" Sara threw up her hands and barged past him.

"I think you upset her," pointed out Mick. "Isn't that Rip's job?"


	24. A Time To Try

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

"This was a mistake."

"If I can learn to dance, you can learn not to freak out when Mick throws a punch at you."

"Why how eloquently you do describe things, Miss Lance!" Rip snarked, dragging a shaking hand through his hair as the holograms around them vanished like mist. "Unfortunately, I fear, if the sight of something I know to be no more than light and air aiming a punch at me makes me, as you so delicately put it, 'freak out', I dread to think what would happen if the _real_ Mick tried!"

Sara took his hands in hers, forcing him to turn and face her. "You can beat this. I've seen you face more than your fair share of demons, and every time you beat them. You can beat this too."

"Sara..."

"I know what it's like," she murmured, earning her a sharp look that she stared down. "I know what it feels like to think your life is over. That it belongs to someone else. That _you_ belong to someone else. To believe that someone else has power over you, to keep you, hurt you, torment you, all on their whim. I felt that with Ivo. I lost myself then. I lost hope. Hope that life could get better. But it did get better. It took a long time, for me. It took the League, Star City and all of this, but it did get better. I found myself again. My strength. My confidence. My hope. You will too."

"Sara..."

"Give it time," she urged, her voice sinking to match his low tones. "Be patient with yourself."

His fingers curled around hers and his eyes closed. "I'm sorry."

"You do _not_ have to apologise," breathed Sara. "Not to me."

"I know."

XXXX

Leonard Snart, thief of time, meandered through the marketplace. It really was too easy. A bauble here, a trinket there, a tightly packed scrip loosely tied... It was like children in a fairground. Now where had that thought came from? A memory yet unlocked? A saying once heard? Either way, he felt more real, more alive, more himself, with every purse he picked. Pickpocket. That was the word. But pockets weren't around yet. Were they? Not in any clothes he had worn, nor any he had seen on his monastic brethren. Cutpurse. That was a better word for here and now. But not his. Whose?

He arrived at the blacksmith's forge, a great wooden anvil hanging above the broad, open doorway, signalling the trade of its occupant. A horse stood idly by, nosing through a bag of something, waiting patiently for shoeing. Leonard ducked under the lintel and stepped inside.

"Greetings, Elfreth," called Guillaume through the haze of heat. "Your time runs busily? How does the forge?"

"Guillaume!" Elfreth cried heartily, turning from the polishing of a sword to welcome his guest. He hung the sword in a rest and put down his gloves, wringing one of Guillaume's hands in his own and slapping the more slender man on the back with an intensity that would have made him stumble had he not been ready for it. "Why man, my time runs steadily and the forge burns twice as bright since I called on your aid! It has near halved the time it takes to bring the iron to readiness, and my time goes the smoother for it. You're a rare one, Guillaume. A man that knows the secrets of the workings of nature and of man, who speaks any man's tongue as if 'twere 'is own, who spends his days where he will, but his nights a-cloistered with the Templars, and yet who bears only the name given him on waking within these walls and the memories he's gained since. A fair mystery you! But it was not for this you came down from Temple Mount, and you do naught without purpose, that much I do know of you. How can I aid you, my friend?"

"You are no fool, Elfreth," began Guillaume, taking the stool proffered to him and accepting a cup of ale.

"No more than God makes me," nodded the blacksmith, setting himself and his own ale down to listen. "Fools do not last long in a forge."

"Indeed," agreed Guillaume, setting his cup aside a moment to speak softly. He leant in and the blacksmith followed his lead. "I have need of a skilled hand, a quick mind and a well-governed tongue. What say you?"

The smith leant closer. "I say: say on! My hand, mind and tongue are yours for the governing."

"There is something, shall we say a _set_ of somethings, that I find myself in need of that certain of my brethren may," Guillaume paused and waggled his fingers dismissively, "disapprove of. Something for a little project of my own that I happen to be working on. If word got out, people may get the wrong impression. And we wouldn't want that."

"Does this project have anything to do with the work they have you doing up there?" Elfreth inclined his head in the direction of Temple Mount.

"You could say that," drawled Guillaume, a lazy smile spreading over his face. "You could definitely say that."

"Then tell me what you need," nodded the smith emphatically. "They do God's work up on that holy mountain, and any small part I can play in the doing of it is a blessing upon me. I'll make what you ask and tell no man of the making of it."

"Precisely what I hoped you'd say," smiled Guillaume, leaning back. "Tell me: how much do you know about lock picks?"

XXXX

"You sure about this, boss?" Mick checked, having watched the pageant played out before him. "Can't say I've ever needed an excuse to start a fight before."

"Quite sure, Mister Rory," nodded Rip, his arms folded about him. "And I can assure you we _will_ need an excuse in this case, or so Rex told me. This is his plan, for the most part, after all."

"So we go in undercover," Mick summarised. "You dance with Blondie. You pretend you're gonna kiss her. I pretend I'm gonna knock your lights out. Hmm." Mick loomed over Rip, looking him up and down. "Just so you know: you kiss her for real, I hit you for real. Got that?"

"Undeniably, although I assure you the warning is utterly unnecessary," growled Rip, standing his ground and straightening to meet the challenge in Mick's eyes. "Neither Miss Lance nor myself are likely to mistake subterfuge for reality. We've both done this sort of thing before."

"Hmm," rumbled Mick. "Well. I'll be watching."

"I hope you will! You know your cue?"

"Oh yeah," Mick's eyes flared. "I know it."

XXXX

Leonard laid his tools out on his bed. The newly fashioned set of lock picks, made to his exacting specifications by the best blacksmith in the city. The crowbar, so useful in its varied applications. The pick and shovel, carelessly taken away with him as he hurried from digging work to chapel, then opportunistically stolen while he sung psalms with the rest within. They were the link that pointed most damningly to himself, but he had a dozen or more witnesses to his laying them down by the chapel door and at least as many as would swear he had not left the mass until they had. The fact that not one of them wished to admit to the others that his prayerful reverie had been in fact a sound sleep and he had no idea where his chaplet was during mass, let alone the strange man standing near him, was one on which Leonard was counting. His last item of business was a mask of black silk. His clothes were dark enough and anonymous enough in this era that he could not be known by them. If he were spotted at all, the only thing that would give him away was his bearing; and a man might change that in a heartbeat if he had a mind.

What worried him most was that the cellar should be occupied when he arrived. That he would not know until through the door, and by then it would be too late. He had watched it as closely as he was able, and was certain that the usual pattern was for the cellarer and his boy to retire to their respective beds with the rest: brothers in the dorter and boys in their own dormitory, both a good distance from the cellar itself. The boy Astralabe worried him, though. He was clever, no question, and he was observant. Already Leonard had seen sufficient proof of this. If the boy decided to return to, or remain in, the cellar after Brother Odo's departure, it may go ill for the crook and his endeavours.

But enough of worrying. All worries were accounted for as best they may be. He was ready to begin.

XXXX

"I _cannot_ do this!"

"Yes, you can." 

"Nope! Not happening!"

"Sara, don't be ridiculous," sighed Rip, trying and failing to hide a smile. He caught her hand and pulled her back to him. "You're getting there. Just stop looking down."

"Every time I don't look down, I trip over my own feet. Or yours."

"Come here. Start again. Look at me. Let _me_ lead!"

"You're getting Gideon to fabricate reinforced shoes for you, right?" Sara quipped, her foot colliding with his yet again.

"As soon as we're done here for the night," he replied with a teasing smile. "I'll need them for in here tomorrow!"

XXXX

From his spot at the end of the back row, Leonard had a clear view of both Astralabe and his master. The tall form of Brother Odo was easily spotted, even if his stentorian voice did not make itself known over all others during the psalms for prime. Leonard caught sight of the brother stifling a yawn once or twice, while the bible passages for the day and hour were being read, but the boy was alert and bright eyed. Leonard glowered. His choices were to attempt the excavation during the hours of daylight, when it would be least suspected but when time was short as he was limited to when the cellarer and the boy left the stores to attend services, or to wait until night, when he had the cover of darkness and greater time between the ringing of the bell. Of course, any movement at all spotted when all should be abed would immediately rouse the suspicions of the temple guards.

The boy blinked and joined in the benedictus, never missing a word, never looking down at his prayer book. Leonard sighed. He would have to try and ensure as little movement of casks and boxes as possible: the boy would spot the change immediately. If he needed more time, he would need some way of covering up his work. That at least was in hand. Brother Benoit, who surveyed the legitimate excavations at the Temple of Solomon, had employed Guillaume to find a storage space for the latest stock of timbers delivered to aid in shoring up the diggings. Guillaume had accepted the task with alacrity, and Leonard had found a storage space in the exact part of the cellar he himself would making his own excavations, without Brother Benoit's watchful eye on him.

The service came to an end. The monks, led by the priests, then the knights, then the lay brethren, filed out of the chapel and off to their respective tasks. Next out were the boys under their tutelage. As they passed, all in their plain, unembroidered tunics and hose, Leonard caught sight of Astralabe and frowned. All the boys in the monks' care wore the same, but the corner of the hem of Astralabe's tunic glittered in the rising sun where the rest did not. Leonard's magpie eyes fixed on the adornment. It was a clasp, the kind that might be used to fasten a cloak around a man's shoulders. But the boy had no cloak. Not here. Not at his age and position. Not yet. And the boys here were allowed no personal possessions of great worth. So why was this one different? Leonard frowned, eyes still following the gleaming circle and pin. A pause in the boy's movement made him look up. The boy was observant indeed.

And now he had observed Leonard.

That could be interesting.


	25. A Time to Dance

Leonard returned to his cell before the bell rang for matins. He had made his plans and executed them. He had executed them every night for the past week. Now he had a hole almost twice as deep as he was tall, wide enough to move in and hidden under a hollow pile of timber that would be the last to be used by Brother Benoit and his men. Securing a knotted rope would have proved difficult under such scrutiny as Leonard was sure he had been given, thus he had cut hand and foot holes into the packed earth wall of his project. Six nights hard labour, and on the seventh he finally had something to show for it. If he'd been a religious man he might have read something into that.

He looked down at the small item in his hand. It would be long before the sun rose to shed its light on the tiny bauble, but it had been buried there, encased in a box of dark wood, overlaid with lead and lined with velvet. Leonard had come across it halfway between vigils and matins, and spent the rest of his time hidden in his pit with his dark lantern and his lock picks, opening that case. The case he had brought with him in his scrip, along with the rest of his smaller gear. The pick and shovel he had left in the pit. But this: this he had kept clasped in the depths of his palm. Easing open the dark lantern, Leonard let a single shaft of golden light fall on the thing. It sparkled with a hidden fire. He picked it up and turned it over and over in his fingers. It was a ring, but not like any he had seen before. It seemed to be made of two halves: one iron, one bronze or brass. Not gold, he was sure of that. Holding the two bands together was a great jade square, its corners softened and smoothed, either by time or by design. On either side of the square were two ovoid gems of a shape that sparked the name marquise in his thief's brain, but unlike the straight edged cuts of his memory, these were smooth and polished. One of each gem on either side of the square was attached to each band of the ring, almost as if it were designed once upon a time to move. They seemed to be of four different types: one glistened red like blood, another caught the light of the lantern more fully and shone up at him like a deep green eye in a golden setting. The jade tablet between the four stones felt engraved under Leonard's fingers, but it was too dark and too worn for him to make out the pattern. Something in a circle. That was as much as he could tell for now.

The bell for matins began to ring and he hurried to hide his find and tools in the hollow below his floor. Not being one of the brothers, he was not expected at the service, but any light below his door spotted by another resident or hurrying novice would arouse suspicion. Instead, he doused the lantern and lay back on his bed, letting sleep overcome him for the short while until prime.

Sleep was never long in taking over Leonard's mind after his nightly exertions. This time it came with dreams. In his dreams he found himself walking through unfamiliar streets in an unfamiliar time. Unfamiliar or simply forgotten, he could not tell. There were others with him, but he could not see them. Together they entered a large room; a bar. Something niggled at his mind. Was this a dream or a memory? He was still unsure. The scene was dark, noisy, filled with people, but then a familiar tune played in his head, and in the centre of the scene a woman in white danced.

XXXX

The moon hung heavily in a warm and windless sky, faint wisps of cloud dulling its silver glow. The team made its way across the barracks to the hall, yellow light streaming from its open door and high windows. Well, most of the team. Someone had to stay on the Waverider to co-ordinate things and look after Jesse, or sleeping beauty as Mick had named her, and according to Rex it had been Amaya. Ray was in miniature form in Mick's top pocket. Mick in the uniform of a US Marine, even a service dress uniform, was the most believable of the group. Jax, decked out in a army service uniform, had spent the last half hour varying between how much he looked like his father, how much he didn't look like his father, how much better his father had suited a uniform and whether or not his old man would be happy or proud if he saw him now. Martin, unassailably a scientist, was dressed as exactly that, scrubbed up and minus the lab coat, and had spent the last half hour listening to Jax. Rip bore a pilot officer's insignia on the sleeve of his RAF uniform, his own personal joke, and a set of fabricated invitations in his hand that would have made every forger of Mick or Sara's acquaintance roll their eyes at in despair. Sara was not wearing a dress uniform of any armed force. She was wearing a dress. It wasn't the same dress she had worn to Savage's party. That had been designed to hold knives, this had been designed to distract and disarm. There would be metal detectors and x-ray machines at this event. Every knife had to be forsaken and left behind in favour of weaponry that could be easily smuggled in, just in case the plan failed. In Martin and Jax's case, they were their own weapon. Ray was small enough to fly around the sensors without being spotted. Mick and Sara were, in a very real sense, weapons in their own right. Usually, they weren't the only ones, but for the moment Rip seemed to be banking on the plan going off without a hitch or there being something in there for him to hit people with.

"Ready for the mother of all bar fights, Haircut?" Mick murmured, signalling the Atom it was time to make his unobserved entrance to the ball.

"I'll see you in there," grinned Ray as he zoomed ahead, doing his best impression of a firefly.

"Only if necessary!" Rip hissed, irritation betraying the jangling in his nerves. "No super suits, superpowers or league tactics unless _absolutely_ necessary!"

"Big brother's a marine," Sara reminded him. "You don't think he's gonna make sure his baby sister can take care of herself while he's deployed?"

"Not the way _you_ take care of yourself," deadpanned Rip, looking up to flash a grin at the guards on duty at the door.

"I still say this is a bad idea," murmured Sara under her breath as Rip handed over their invitations.

"For myself, my father and his assistant and my friend and his _little_ baby sister," Rip muttered, dragging out the adjective wearily, handing over the cards and indicating the other four in turn. Behind him Sara glared. He smirked.

"Sir, these are army barracks," said one of the two guards. "Do you mind telling me how you got these invitations?"

"Not at all," breezed Rip. "My father worked with a Doctor Tyler from your biochemistry division. He acquired the invitations through him and, as I had only recently tracked him down, suggested I and my friends tag along."

The story raised an eyebrow, but that was all. Apparently the forgeries did pass muster after all. The team made their way into the temporary ballroom and spread out, Martin and Jax finding a safe corner to argue over something as cover for staying near each other in the dense crowd of people around the edges, ready to exacerbate the trouble the team planned on causing. Mick headed to the bar, leaving Rip to lead Sara out onto the dance floor.

"I still cannot believe you are making me do this again," grumbled Sara, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Or that the guard actually bought that ridiculous story you made up!"

"It was inspired by one I heard elsewhere," murmured Rip into her ear. "And you danced beautifully last time we rehearsed. You'll be fine this time. Remember: it's a waltz. It's easy: just count to three and step on the 'one'. Besides it was a choice between dancing with either myself or Mister Rory and nobody in their right mind would believe _I_ would choose to pick a fight with _Mick_!"

"You didn't have to add the 'little' the way you did," she muttered, her cheek brushing his as he pulled back to catch her eyes. 

"Mister Rory is about to come over here and start a fight with me, his alleged friend, for hitting on said little sister," said Rip, watching only her as they danced. "Do you really think they'll buy _that_ if we're nice to each other in his presence? They're supposed to think we don't like each other."

"Well that should be too difficult for them, right now," she snapped, glaring up at him. "And I still don't see why they need to think anything. Mick can start a fight in an empty bar!"

"Very likely," he countered, "but who'd believe he did so by accident, hmm? Would _you_? We've been over this. We play it out just as Rex described, as far as he ever did describe it, and hope for the same outcome."

He had looked everywhere but at her the first time they danced, all that long time ago at Savage's party. She had spent most of their lessons and rehearsals watching everything but him. Now she found herself trapped by his emerald gaze, like a moth pinned to a collector's board. The music rose and fell, carrying them with it oblivious to the other dancers around them. He spun her away from him, breaking their eye contact with a suddenness that made her feel bereft. When she moved back into his arms, her hand rested on the back of his neck and his arm wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her close against him. The dancers moved on around them, but they remained, frozen in an apparently unexpectedly amorous embrace.

"That's Mick's cue," she murmured, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. She couldn't have dragged her eyes away from his now if she had wanted to. She felt her heart beat a little faster. That wasn't part of the plan. "Where the hell is he?"

"Probably finishing his drink first," mused Rip, releasing her hand to brush a stray lock of hair back from her face. He didn't remove his hand. "Or waiting to see how far we'll carry on this charade without him."

Automatically, just like they'd rehearsed, her now free hand moved to his chest. He placed a soft kiss on her forehead then rested his own there, drawing her nearer to him. As one, their eyes closed. Below her hand, Sara could feel that it wasn't just her own heart that was racing. The plan had been for Mick to come charging to her rescue by now, before the inevitable kiss they were both now trying to avoid. She felt Rip's hand drift from her face and trail down her spine. She focused on her increasingly erratic breathing, forcing it back into a steady rhythm and ignoring the shivers that coursed down her back, echoing out into her own extremities. They were beyond anything they'd rehearsed now. Where the hell was Mick? The hand on Rip's chest slipped slowly up to his neck. Into his hair. Drawing him closer. Too close.

Finally, an angry roar erupted from the direction of the bar. Mick bounded over, leaving distressed dancers in his wake and sending Rip flying. After that, their little drama played out to perfection, and Doctor Tyler was called to tell him that his friends were causing trouble.


	26. A Time to Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (P.S. Try playing the song at the same time. You'll know what I mean when you get there.)

It was two nights later when Leonard began to discern the first signs of a change in the soil he was eruditely extracting each evening. He had felt the difference before he had seen it: the almost clay-like resistance of packed and hardened mud instead of the time-pressed layers of dust. One night more made all the difference. Then the tough shell cracked and gave way below his efforts with the rapidity of a sandcastle crumbling below the waters of the changing tide. The crash of metal against metal interrupted his progress, jolting the shovel out of his hands. He let it lie, rubbing life back into numbed fingers, and reached for the dark lantern, easing open its shutters to throw light on his discovery.

A slab of metal lay before him, a thin line of silver grey shining though the age-old patina of caked mud and time when his shovel had broken through. There seemed to be raised mouldings and mud-filled engravings, but too little was visible to spot any pattern. The mud was breaking now, though, and he cleared the rest of the slab by hand with time to spare. It was a hatch of some kind, its identity made clear by the hinges in one long edge. There was also something that, to Leonard's agile mind, resembled some kind of lock. Not any kind of lock he had ever seen before, but definitely a lock. There was something familiar about it too, and he thought he had an inkling what.

The centre of the hatch was covered in deeply graven lettering. The inscription was recognisably Hebrew, or something very similar, but beyond his comprehension. Unlike the hieratic that had brought him here, there had been no pressing need for Leonard to learn any new forms of writing here. The vast majority of writing he had come across was French or Latin: all easily enough translated when read aloud. He was still working on remembering why that might be the case. He had been here a mere matter of months, however: his co-conspirator in this little enterprise had been here a matter of decades. Leonard shook off the dust of his evening's adventures and climbed out of his excavation. Tomorrow night he would return, and with him he would bring his writing materials.

It had been long enough since Brother Antoine entrusted him with the story of his friend's disappearance and the two fragile scrolls Fulcher had left with the monk. Leonard had returned twice since then to report his progress in translating the scrolls, and lack thereof in finding Fulcher, and once simply to avail himself of the good Brother's medical acumen. On the most recent of those, Antoine had warned him to be wary and only come at need. The Knights of St John may differ in the precise rule of their order from the Knights of the Temple, but they had more than just their faith in common and Leonard was not the only go-between to traverse the dusty distance from city to citadel.

XXXX

"You really love all this stuff, don't you," murmured Sara, wandering around the comforting warm glow of the office, trailing a delicate hand through the air above the artefacts, tracing their outlines and almost, but not quite, brushing their surfaces. "It's like a museum in here. I don't think I've ever seen a record player this old. I barely remember the one Mom and Dad had!"

"It's a gramophone, in point of fact," replied Rip languidly, watching her leaf through the collection of records. He was slumped back in his chair, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, elbows resting bent on the cushioned arms, a still untouched whisky tumbler dangling between the fingers of both hands. "Much older than anything your parents would have owned. Even predates electricity. Well, electricity for common household appliances, anyway. You see the handle?"

Sara put her glass of Scotch down on a nearby table, next to an art deco bronze, and returned her attention to the gramophone. She pointed to the handle, looking over at him with a quizzical smile.

"Turn it," he said, putting down his glass and standing up. He joined her at the record collection and filed through, selecting one timeworn sleeve, the third of a set of four, and removing the fragile disc inside. He handed it to Sara. "Go on."

"Okay," she smiled, still unsure. Taking the record by its edges she placed it on the turntable.

Rip moved the needle into place and pressed a button. The raindrop notes of Clair de Lune echoed out through the fluted horn by their side. He held out his hand and raised his eyebrows at her.

"Oh, we have _had_ this conversation," she retorted, holding up her hands. "There's no surveillance or subterfuge to use as an excuse today, either."

"Well, you weren't too bad then and you're not likely to get any better standing around here just listening," he shrugged, still offering his hand.

"Fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes and ignoring the triumphant smile that flashed across his face when she took the proffered hand. "You could have picked a waltz or something easy at least."

"It'll pick up, trust me," he told her, "and I thought something with the name 'moonlight' might be appropriate for the late hour."

"There must be more than one record with the word 'moonlight' in the title," Sara scoffed, half-heartedly though. "Moonlight serenade? Moonlight sonata? I'm sure I've heard of those at least, and that's just for starters."

"I think I have the serenade somewhere," Rip mused, glancing back at the record collection thoughtfully. "Personally signed, if I recall. We can try that next time."

"You're lucky there's a this time," she remarked dryly.

He smirked back at her. "Yes, I rather think I am."

She smiled back despite herself, catching the teasing glint in his eyes. His eyes held hers in place, daring her not to look down. A lull in the music slowed them almost to a stop then began again, its tempo rising and falling as notes rose in short crescendos. With a jolt, Sara realised she had lost herself for a moment. In the music. In the movement. That was all. Just the music. She looked away, suddenly conscious of a gaze that had never bothered her before. Except once.

"Did you dance a lot before?" Sara asked, covering her sudden disquiet with questions. "With Miranda?"

"No, Miranda wasn't one for dancing," he sighed, looking away at the memory, a lingering sadness dulling his eyes and turning his smile bittersweet. "Two left feet. She even had to stand on mine during the first dance at our wedding just to avoid tripping over her dress."

"Leonard didn't like dancing either," she laughed with a sad smile of her own, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, I have no right to compare..."

"Yes, you do," he reminded her gently. "It's what we do here, isn't it? Sit up half the night while the rest of the crew are asleep, drinking my alcohol and talking about the people we've loved and lost. Remembering them."

"That's just it, I don't know if I did," she sighed, still not looking back up to him. "I cared about him. We were friends. We were nearly more than that. But did I love him? I don't know. I never really got the chance to find out."

"That doesn't take away your right to grieve for him," he murmured in her ear as the notes quietened once more. "We all mourn in different ways, Sara. Some of us fall back into old bad habits, like Mister Rory. Some of us take the chance to make new ones, like Doctor Palmer. Some of us risk destroying the entirety of time leading a band of misfits on the mother of all manhunts, but you know: each to their own."

"Hmmm, I wonder which one _you_ are?" Sara laughed, and looked back round to him. He was watching her again, and his smile brightened a little at her own.

The music had returned to its initial refrain, slowing the dance and drawing them in. Then it rippled up again and they turned on the spot, speeding up and slowing down with the tempo. As the last notes died away, they swayed to a stop, eyes still locked on each other and much closer than they had begun. Somewhere along the way, Sara found that her hand had slid up from his shoulder to his neck, angling his head down towards her own. She could swear the arm that was wrapped around her waist had begun as a hand on her back. And there was no denying the hand she had placed in his was now sandwiched between their shoulders, fingers treacherously intertwining. Her heart was racing. Her breathing was shallow. She would love to blame it on the dance, but she knew she'd be lying. And this time there was no Mick to interrupt them.

Sara searched his eyes for something. Anything. All she found were more questions. Questions his eyes seemed to be asking her. And something, maybe, akin to hope? There was a flutter in his eyelashes and it seemed that the hope there started to fade. Perhaps that was what changed her mind, or made it up for her. Perhaps it was the thought that she didn't want to miss another chance. Perhaps it was just because she hadn't felt this way in... How long? Perhaps it was all of the above. She untangled her fingers from his and reached up, letting them tangle this time in his hair, pulling him down to capture his lips with hers. His free arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her body up at the same instant. Time seemed to slow until they hung motionless, breathless lips a hair's breadth apart. Suddenly it was like a dam had burst. They moved as one, Sara's back colliding with the clear wall, devouring each other in hungry, open-mouthed kisses that roamed wildly over necks and shoulders and anywhere they could reach. How much time passed, neither knew. How much longer might have passed, they never found out. A shock wave rocked the Waverider, hurtling them sideways to land in a collapsed and tangled mess on the floor. Sparks flew overhead and alarms rang out throughout the ship, calling the rest of the crew to arms. They were under attack.


	27. A Time to Talk

Sara almost ignored her early morning alarm call. Almost. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Did last night really happen? Had she dreamt it? But why would she dream the attack too? Why would she dream the kiss, for that matter. No, she knew the answer to that. For long enough, since her resurrection, she had been unable to feel anything even remotely close to what first Lindsay, then Leonard, had re-awoken in her. Now they were both gone. One left behind in the fifties, the other just gone. Forever. And she had felt herself sink back into that dark pit where nothing could touch her, nothing move her, no matter how hard she tried. If she shut out the world, she could shut out the pain. The pain of losing Leonard, yes, but also the overwhelming pain of losing Laurel. It was like a tsunami, drawing back and rising up, threatening to engulf her and destroy her. So she had shut it off. Shut off all feelings, good and bad. Then she had found them creeping back in, like the first teardrops of water seeping through a city's flood defences, and no matter what she tried she couldn't stop them. She couldn't stop herself feeling the pain. Couldn't stop herself drowning in it.

The others had tried to help, tried to look after her, but they really didn't know how to. Not beyond keeping her body fed, watered and rested. Her spirit on the other hand, her soul: that was still dying quietly inside. Then he had turned up, that first night, with a bottle of Scotch and bags under his eyes, and she had realised that he was drowning in exactly the same sea of pain. The same tears, the same grief, the same guilt. Worse, even. She had only started to know Leonard; Miranda was the love of his life. She had lost a sister, someone whom she had relied on all her life; he had lost a son, a child, someone who had relied on him, his father, for all of his. He had tried, time and again, to save them. He had failed every time. She had only failed once, but she had failed to try. A little part of her still hadn't quite forgiven him for that. There were a lot of little things she still wasn't sure she had forgiven him for, but she was at least starting to understand. Understand his reasons. Understand him. And he understood her. Her pain, anyway. Even when it was all she could think about, all she could feel, he had been there to help her through. And she had helped him. Two drowning souls clinging together in the hope that it would stop them being pulled under. Her mind flitted back to the first time she had really seen him break: the first time she had seen all the darkness inside swell to the surface and engulf him. She had seen him angry, sad, vulnerable, but never like that night. And she had done the only thing she could think of: she had held him. Held him and let him cry. Felt him wrap his arms around her so tightly she thought she would have bruises the next day.

That was when she had first noticed it.

Noticed how easily she let him into her personal space now. How easily he let her into his. How often their minds reached the same conclusion. How, sometimes, they even finished each other's sentences. How much closer they had become, even when the others were around. As far as she could tell, with the exception of Gideon, nobody else on the ship was aware of their little midnight therapy sessions.

Well, she smirked, they might be now.

Whether she had wanted to or not, somewhere along the line he had made her feel something, anything, that wasn't hurtful. She hadn't expected the roles they had played during _that_ waltz to get to her so much. It was a con she had run before, as an assassin and as a vigilante, and she had never let her feelings get in the way then. Not even when her partner had been someone she knew she had feelings for. But then maybe that was the difference: she hadn't realised there were any _feelings_ to ignore. And then last night had happened and they had ended up so close, so damn close, to where they were in that ballroom. Was that his doing or hers? He had picked the music, suggested dancing to it. She had been the one to close the gap between them, to let her hand slip up from his shoulder. She was sure of that. Almost sure. And she had been the one to kiss him.

And he had definitely kissed her back.

Sara ran a hand over her eyes and got up, heading for the shower instead of the training room. Soon she was dressed and ready to take on the multiverse, or at least one member of it. She ignored the kitchen as she passed it and headed straight for the bridge. The damage she passed in every corridor confirmed the reality of last night's adventures: Time Pirates catching up with them in what they thought was a safe harbour en route to the Vanishing Point. The battle had been short and decisive. Apparently, according to their fearless leader, the attacking ship's sensors had detected that they were in night mode and assumed that meant everyone was asleep. They had thought to destroy them before anyone was awake enough to even assess the situation. They were wrong. Two people had been wide awake, if somewhat distracted, and suspiciously close to the bridge.

The others hadn't said anything when they eventually showed up, just strapped into the seats and let the captain and his second in command continue dealing with the crisis. Even after they had succeeded in disabling the ship and jumping away, nobody had commented on how somebody whose bedroom was at the opposite end of the ship was at the bridge before them, why both that someone and her captain were still fully clothed, or why said clothes were more than a little rumpled. Sara bit her lip and smiled at the memory of just how those rumples got there. Her smile faded when she saw the door of the bridge before her. They hadn't really had a chance to talk last night, not after the attack. Rip had sent everyone off to get some sleep and said that he would take the first watch in case the pirates followed them. She hadn't really had much choice but to follow the rest, not without risking someone noticing. She had simply held his gaze steadily from the other side of the holotable and read the plan there in those Machiavellian eyes. Say nothing. Act normal. We'll talk later. And 'later' was going to be now. Sara touched the button nearby and felt the puff of air as the doors slid open. The acrid tang of burnt metal filled her nostrils, but soon faded. She walked in and took in the scene. There he was, leaning on the holotable like he always did when his mind was elsewhere, peering down at whatever Gideon was showing him.

"Hey," she called, stopping by the far side of the table and looking down. "What's this?"

"Damage reports," he replied, his eyes fixed on the schematics in front of him. "I've been prioritising lists of repairs, one for each of us. Mister Jefferson and myself will take the time drive problems, then Doctors Palmer and Tyler the engine room issues. You and Professor Stein can handle the wiring in here with Gideon to keep you straight, can't you? I'll need Mick and Amaya to do the heavy lifting down in the hold and elsewhere. They're the only ones strong enough, well, without having Rex use _his_ abilities but I need his _brain_ right now, not his brawn."

Sara glanced around. The bridge was empty. "Gideon, is everyone else on board still asleep?"

"Affirmative, Miss Lance," replied the computer. "Although I do believe Professor Stein and Mister Rory are likely to awaken of their own accord within the next twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Gideon," she murmured, then turned her attention back to Rip. His gaze was still fixed on the holotable. Sara bit her lip and looked down, then let out a deep breath and shook her head. "Are we gonna talk about what happened last night, or just ignore it?"

"I thought we just were talking about it," Rip murmured, still not looking up.

"You _know_ that's not the part of last night I'm talking about!" Sara teased, making her way round the table to stand beside him. He moved away. He _actually_ moved away from her. She leant back on the table and shook her head. Damn the man! "You know what, we should just forget about it! _Clearly_ it was a mistake! We'd both had maybe a little too much to drink and we got caught up in the moment, is all. I got caught up. I was a little bit drunk, a little bit emotional, and I got a little lost in the music and the dancing and... everything. I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"You don't have to apologise," he muttered, his eyes now focussed on the space between his hands. "I'm your captain, I have a duty of care, I should never have let things..."

"Don't do that," Sara broke in, turning to face him. "Don't make this your fault. _I_ kissed _you_!"

"I didn't exactly stop you," murmured Rip, running a hand over his eyes as if it could erase the memory. "I should have."

She wanted to reach out. To drag him round to face her. To tell him to look her in the eye and say that. But what if he actually did? Could she take that? To see the one person she had come to trust more than anyone else on this ship, the one person she had truly let inside her defences, hurt her like that? She looked away, locking away her thoughts, rebuilding her armour. "Whatever. We're both at fault. Let's just draw a line under it, forget about it and move on. Deal?"

Rip paused, leaning heavily on the table. He hated hearing the ice come back into her voice. He hated himself for pushing her away. But she was grieving, they both were, and he _was_ her captain. She was vulnerable and he would be wrong to take advantage of that. Both as her captain and as her friend. "Deal."

XXXX

"Guillaume!" Brother Antoine cried cheerfully. "What a delight to see you, my brother! You have no injury for me to treat, I trust."

"None of the body, but perhaps one of the spirit," replied Leonard, clasping the old man's hand in his. "May we talk?"

The sign and countersign had been agreed by the two when they first embarked upon their quest for truth, but never had the words felt so apt as now. Leonard followed his friend through the abbey to the herbarium. Those who noted their passage were all well within earshot of Guillaume de la Muraille's arrival and stated needs. Almost all were well aware of the condition of the strange man's memory and how Brother Antoine had been given charge of his treatment. They would find nothing odd in the retiral of the two men to quieter surroundings. Nothing, that is, unless the visits became too frequent.

The latch of the herbarium door clicked closed behind Leonard and he reached into the breast of his tunic, drawing out a rolled scroll of fine paper. The finest in the city. He passed it to the monk, who turned from lighting a lamp to take the delicate tube and unroll it. Leonard watched his confidante's face as the old man read. The brows rose in surprise. The brows sank again. A frown appeared. A look of wonder. Finally the aged monastic sank down onto his one stool and covered his mouth with his hand.

"Oh, that I should live to see the day!" Antoine breathed. "God be praised! He has sent his messenger to find such wonders and uncover his truth."

"Beg pardon?" Leonard eyed the monk narrowly. "I ain't anyone's messenger boy. We've been through this Brother: you know my history. I'm a thief."

"So too was the first to join Christ in Paradise," rejoined Antoine pointedly, waving the paper at him. "So says the words of that great physician and son of Antioch, Luke the Evangelist."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, and the chance does exist," drawled Leonard, leaning back against the workbench with folded arms, "but I'd have to be a penitent one to fit _that_ bill."

Antoine shook his head, brushing away his patient's dissent. He was becoming used to Leonard's moments of odd speech, saved, somehow, only for his ears. Sometimes there would be a word or phrase that confused him, but only rarely and he could either work it out in context or ignore it as he was now. He turned his attention to the sliver of precious paper in his hands. The writing was neat, though obviously a copy, and the meaning clear.

Brother Antoine raised his head. "Where did you find this?"

Leonard pushed himself up off the work top and circled over to the monk. "On a metal door, buried under where I found this."

Brother Antoine's eyes followed the path of the shining bauble as it was passed to him, his co-conspirator holding it out brazenly between finger and thumb. Antoine took the ring carefully, so carefully, and held it up to the light. "God be praised indeed," he murmured. "It is the Seal!"

"The what now?"

"The Seal of Solomon," breathed Brother Antoine in wonder. "The signet ring with which, so the legends say, King Solomon used to seal his private documents and summon up demons."

"So is it important?"

"Immensely!"

"Dangerous?"

"Most likely."

"Demonic?"

"Probably not," Brother Antoine admitted, "But let us not separate the rings just in case."

"Duly noted," nodded Leonard, leaning back against the workbench with folded arms. "Now what?"

"The script you gave me," replied Brother Antoine, unrolling the page and giving it back to Leonard. "It tells of the key of the King, and that the hatch will only open at the touch of the key itself, and that the King alone will know how to use it."

"Well, as Sherlock Holmes was wont to say," began Leonard, the light of the sun sparkling off his eyes, "What one man can invent another can discover. Tell me _exactly_ what the writing says."


	28. A Time to Reflect

"There a reason you're hiding in here?" Mick rumbled, his head protruding oddly from the open hatchway in the floor.

"I'm not hiding," shrugged Sara from her supine position, arms crossed behind her head, "I'm thinking."

"I thought you 'thought' better in your training room," retorted a dubious Mick, "or mine."

"It wasn't working for me," shrugged the assassin again. "This is."

"Never took you for the star-gazy type," tried Mick again, casting his eyes up at the clear, in some parts artificially so, dome of the observatory. "Figured that was just Haircut and Silver Top."

"Martin's been in and out a bit," agreed Sara, never taking her eyes off the stars above. "Making some kind of measurements or other."

"Yeah, he's got somethin' brewin'," growled Mick, looking down with a frown. "Can always tell when the nerds hit a big discovery: they get all... twitchy."

"Rex too?" Sara took her turn to frown. "I thought he was..."

"Oh, he's busy on Sleepin' Beauty's case," affirmed Mick, inclining his head. "No, Tin Man's got a twitchiness all his own right now. Rip thinks we might have our baby speedster up and running soon. Surprised you didn't know that..."

"Been thinking..."

"Up here," Mick finished, eyeing her suspiciously. "Right. This the kind of thinking you did in your room when you didn't come out for days and told Gideon not to let anyone near you?"

Sara rolled her eyes and sighed. "No, Mick: _you're_ here aren't you?"

"You never know: I could be a hologram."

"I think you'd know at least," she smiled, letting the corners of her mouth creep up just a little.

"Ah, but you wouldn't," pointed out the erudite arsonist. He cast a glance upwards. "See anything interesting."

"Just makin' pictures," sighed Sara, one side of her mouth curling up in remembrance. "It's a thing Laurel and I used to do when we were kids. The house we lived in back then: it had this big old flat roof just outside our bedroom window. Sometimes we'd sneak out there with our pillows and blankets and watch the star drift by. We didn't know any of the real names or constellations back then, so we just made our own up."

"Isn't that how they all got named in the first place?" Mick wondered aloud, his eyes falling back to the assassin. "Who says some old white-bearded dude somewhere unpronounceable in the dim and distant past has dibs on star names. Have you heard the names they gave their kids back then? Terrible! Who wants to get stuck with a name like a Simpsons character anyway?"

Sara let out a small laugh and sat up, stretching time-stiffened limbs and yawning. "How'd you find me anyway?"

"Find you?" Mick raised an ingenuous pair of brows. "Thought you weren't hiding? Can't _find_ something that isn't hidden now, can we? Or someone."

Sara gave him a wry look.

"I asked the know-it-all," breezed Mick, as if revealing a secret of great mystical importance.

"I told Martin not to tell anyone," Sara sighed, rolling her eyes. "Gideon too."

"She didn't. She told me you told her not to tell anyone. That's how I knew you were hiding," explained Mick. "You don't have to be a genius to spot when Silver Top's hiding something, either. Especially not when his junior partner keeps asking him what he's nervous about. Why _are_ you hiding? Just for the record."

"Is there a law against wanting some alone time on this ship?" Sara snapped, frowning and looking away.

"Alone time is one thing," Mick continued, aware he was pushing his luck now. "You have your quarters, your training room, my training room and the armoury to get some alone time in: that's where you usually go. This is new. New plus threatening nerds means you're hiding. I ain't gonna _make_ you tell me - I know that won't work - but if you want to you can. Whatever's bugging you. Won't go any further, I swear."

"What time is it?" Sara frowned, changing the subject. "I could eat a horse!"

"No horses, I'm afraid," quipped Mick, watching her as carefully as she was avoiding looking at him. "Just tacos. Or leftover tacos anyway. Dinner was two hours ago. We told Gideon."

"She told me," Sara nodded quickly, pushing herself to her feet. "I wasn't hungry then. I am now."

"You're not..."

"Mick, I'm fine!" Sara snapped, meeting his gaze sharply and looming over him at the top of the stairs through the hatch. "I just wanted to spend some time alone, thinking about stuff, and this seemed as good a spot as any. I didn't come and eat with the crew because I didn't feel like talking to the crew and I didn't want to be rude."

Mick held her glare for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Glad that's settled, then."

"Yes, it is," confirmed Sara, with deadly sincerity. "Now if you don't mind..."

Mick voiced a low, suspicious rumble and backed off down the narrow stairs.

XXXX

The writing was a riddle. It was not a plain announcement of importance and admonishment to those unworthy souls who dared interfere with the secrets of their ancestors, as Leonard recalled reading numerous times in ancient Egypt while teaching himself hieratic: the common cursive script of the day. Instead, laid out in an odd pattern, according to Brother Antoine, was a poem written in the common cursive of another bygone era: Aramaic. Not the right bygone era though. The good Brother had informed Leonard that this message was but a translation inscribed over the original in a more modern hand: a palimpsest engraved upon the remains left following the Babylonian invasion and their destruction of Solomon's temple. The last lines had read "Ezra, of the Kohanim of the tribe of Levi, wrote these words. He writes them faithfully as they were taught him by his father, who learnt them from his father and he from his father before him, who read them with his own eyes before the downfall of the temple and his exile from the land of his fathers."

So the riddle might not even be an accurate riddle, Leonard pondered, allowing his mind to wander as it often did during the long evening hours without any digging to be done. He would have to solve it soon, though, accurate or not: the legitimate diggings were fast approaching the end of their stockpile of timbers and the last thing he needed was clumsy hands helping themselves to his hiding place. He turned the ring over in his fingers, feeling with the deft touch of a thief the cuts and scratches in the metal. The idea of a key had immediately brought the ring to his mind, but that had been a dead end. Nothing on the metal slab remotely resembled the unique rectangular tablet that nestled between the four gems. Nor did anything resemble the gems themselves or even the ring as a whole, side on. There was no keyhole, that Leonard could see, nor any obvious means of disguising one. His gut couldn't let go of the idea that the ring had something to do with it though. He ran his thumb over the timeworn edges of the ring, safely on his finger and hidden beneath the long sleeves of his chemise, and closed his eyes. Perhaps in dreams his mind would have better luck deciphering the enigma of the King's key.

XXXX

"How does our patient, Doctor Tyler?" Rip enquired, striding through the medical bay to Jesse's bed.

Rex looked up from his work at the sudden intrusion, saw who it was, and rose to face the captain. "I think I may be on to something. The data you gave me, on speedsters: it applies to all of them?"

"All those we know of," nodded Rip, resting his hands on his hips and gazing down at the unconscious girl with the shadow of a frown on his face. "Why?"

"According to this information," continued the biochemist, "speedsters use an incredible quantity of energy simply to maintain their accelerated metabolism. Usually this is achieved by consuming an enormous volume of carbohydrates, either in simple or complex form. Complex carbohydrates, such as starch, are broken down by enzymes in the digestive system to form glucose. Glucose is broken down in every cell by enzymes of the aerobic respiratory pathway to form water, carbon dioxide and adenosine triphosphate. Follow me so far?"

"Basic biology," muttered Rip with a nod, still surveying the sleeping speedster in question. "What of it?"

"Do all the speedsters you know of come from this dimension?"

The apparent non-sequitur made Rip look up, meeting Rex's expression of amiable inquiry with an intrigued deepening of his frown. "Yes. Why?"

"It appears there is a dimensional difference in Miss Wells on the intracellular level," said Doctor Tyler, turning to hand Rip the data he had been perusing. On the tablet screen were a series of lines traversing a graph, two tables of ever changing numbers and two large pictures. They looked like multicoloured tangles of spiralling ringlets of ribbons. Rex indicated the ribbon diagram by Rip's left hand. "This is isocitrate dehydrogenase. It's an enzyme your cells use to remove hydrogen from isocitrate: one of the intermediate compounds in the Krebs' Cycle. You might know it as the Citrate, or Citric Acid, Cycle: either way, it's a major chunk of the main respiratory pathway. Even breaking down fats and proteins to use as substrates in alternate pathways, which the body does naturally if glucose is unavailable, all pathways have to go through the Krebs' Cycle at some point. This," and here he pointed at the ribbon diagram on the opposite side, tapping the screen at several points to highlight in rings a number of subtle differences between the two, "is the isocitrate dehydrogenase enzyme found in our Earth Two speedster's cells. I can't tell if there's something different about the isocitrate molecule in her dimension, but going by how her system is handling the glucose and saline drips we've been pumping into her system here, it's here we find our problem. Her system is dangerously low in adenosine triphosphate, the body's chemical form of energy, and no matter how much glucose we pump into her, it's not increasing fast enough to wake her. This is what's stopping it. The enzyme in her body is unable to process the form of the molecule found in this dimension. At least not fast enough to be efficient. It might be common to all from Earth Two dimension, or it might just be a genetic peculiarity limited to Jesse, er, Miss Wells."

"Can you fix it?" Rip frowned down at the young girl again, mentally cataloguing every extra-dimensional person he had come across in his travels.

"I've switched the glucose in her IV bag for alpha ketoglutarate - the next step in the cycle - and I'm working on a gene editing therapy that will hopefully allow Miss Wells to produce and utilise _both_ variants of the enzyme."

"Good work, Doctor," nodded Rip, his eyes still pensively glued to their patient. "I have a feeling we will need Miss Wells up and around quite soon."

"If my theory is correct," smiled Rex, also gazing down at the patient but with a quite different expression playing on his features, "she should be awake and coherent within the next five and a half hours. She'll still need the IV, at least until the gene therapy has taken hold, but she won't need to be connected to it _all_ the time."

"Five and a half," mused Rip, eyes narrowing in mental calculation. "How certain are you of that number?"

"I'll admit: it's more a guess than an estimate, but it's the best I've got," frowned the biochemist, looking up at the captain with sudden curiosity. "Why?"

"Gideon's tracked down our next refugee, or fugitive, of time." The captain's brow became furrowed and his eyes distant. It wasn't exactly accurate to say he felt remorse for his part in destroying the Time Masters, but thoughts of those he had known almost all his days as comrades, brothers in arms, friends - even family - still threatened to draw him into the morass of guilt and regret. Especially when he had thrown himself as far into his researches as he had these last few days. Not that he was trying to distract himself from anything, or avoid anyone, of course. It was simply work that needed to be done; and he, and his team, had done what needed to be done. They had destroyed a corrupt organisation to save the world. Yet it had only been the upper echelons of that organisation that had been truly corrupt, the rest merely under their command and control. Rip knew how deeply they could insinuate themselves into a young man's, a child's, consciousness. He knew how difficult it was to shake off the yoke and harness of their brainwashing. He knew there were few who showed any proclivity for independent thought even when he was at the very start of their training. He knew, personally, of only one other, beyond himself and Miranda, who had broken that greatest of Time Master commandments: thou shalt not fall in love. That was why he had been so eager to recruit Luke. The others were a hit or a miss. Some had evaded him; others told him exactly what they thought of him and where he could go; a few, a precious few, with Eve, Amelia and Luke's help, had joined their cause. Others, it seemed, had simply switched to the other side. Which would this be? Friend or foe? Saint or sinner? "Yet sinned I not but in mistaking."

"Captain Hunter?" Rex verbally prodded the other man out of his reverie.

"Hmm?" Rip looked up, his mask falling back into place. "Yes, our next mission, indeed. We have a destination. There are a few last repairs to finish, but myself and Mister Jefferson can handle them. Trouble is we may need your _unique_ skills on this one and I wouldn't want to take you away from your patient at a critical moment."

"If there was going to be any adverse reaction, it would have kicked in by now," replied Rex with the assurance and confidence of any scientist on their own turf. He tapped the tablet screen and enlarged the flowing line graphs and fluctuating tables. "These are her isocitrate levels, her alpha ketoglutarate levels and her adenosine triphosphate levels. The dotted lines beside and beyond them are the levels Gideon predicted following her simulation runs. You can see they are almost identical."

"Ah yes, there it is," Rip sighed looking up to the ceiling, eyes closed in relief or despair.

"Captain?" Rex looked at the Englishman in confusion.

"That word that scientists use when they _think_ something but are not _certain_ of it," breathed Rip. "That word that presages every other disaster on board this ship simply by allowing itself to be uttered either by Professor Stein or, and most often, by Doctor Palmer. That word, that tiny word, that is the herald of trepidation and terror whenever it is heard on board this vessel. That word 'almost'."


	29. A Time to Travel

"You seem quiet, Miss Lance," mused Martin, gently pouring tea into two of the Waverider's odd cups. "Is there something on your mind?"

"Yoga isn't meant to be a noisy pursuit, Professor," replied the assassin, taking the cup Martin handed her. "You did well today, by the way. You're flexibility is really starting to improve."

"If only I could concentrate better during meditation and relaxation periods," he added with a slight, apologetic smile.

"Don't worry about it," grinned Sara, leaning back against the counter and blowing on her tea. "I'd find it difficult to think straight too if I had Jax in my head."

"It's not so much that I hear his thoughts as his emotions," explained the professor with a wave of his free hand. "He's a veritable fount of nerves, stress and anxiety at the moment and I cannot persuade him to tell me why. I know Captain Hunter is working him hard just now to try and fix all the issues we've been having with the Waverider, but it's something more than that."

"Something young, pretty, fast and currently unconscious in our medbay perhaps?" Sara suggested, an eyebrow rising. "Come on, Martin: you saw him when she first arrived. Is it that hard to imagine that maybe, with the prospect of her waking up some time soon, he's getting a little nervous? He's gonna get to meet his crush for the first time. Is she gonna be exactly as he imagined? Better? Worse? What'll she think of him? It's hard enough working out how you feel about someone when they're right in front of you every day, being their usual annoying, irritating, infuriating, heroic self without having to deal with them being unconscious instead."

Martin sipped his tea, pondering her words carefully. "There is something in what you say," he murmured. "Yes, that might be it." Martin put down the cup and turned to Sara. "And you must not beat yourself up for taking so long to work out how you felt about Mister Snart, my dear. None of us could have foreseen his fate. A fate, remember, that he chose."

Sara frowned as she felt Martin's paternal hand pat her shoulder on the way out. "No, that wasn't..."

XXXX

Leonard awoke, his fingers still caressing the ring. He wondered briefly what had woken him, then heard the bell sound again. It was prime. He rose and pulled on his clothes, pausing briefly to splash his face with water from a jug and bowl, and to rinse his mouth out. They expected him at morning prayer, after which he would break his fast with the other monks and pensioners of the temple. On an average day, he would then work with the other diggers until terse, when the monks again gathered in the chapel for mass, then until sext when the midday meal would be served. He was free then to go about his own business through nones and onward until vespers when the evening meal was served. Compline was the hour of evening prayer and, after that, the inhabitants of Temple Mount retired for the night.

Well, most of them did.

The day proceeded as boringly predictable as Leonard had surmised. Its only items of interest occurred in the time between sext and vespers, when he was free to do as he wished. On this occasion, he wished to spend some time getting to know the brother cellarer, Brother Odo, and, obliquely, his young apprentice. It had been an intriguing afternoon, and Leonard had learnt much that he neither knew, nor wished to know, about the correct hanging of hams, the great importance of salt and smoke, the terrible tragedy of sour wine, and the great difficulties of keeping the beer rationed around the less disciplined of the order - not to mention their workforce. He had also learnt that the boy, Astralabe, was the son of someone of great importance. Of whom, exactly, he could not be certain, however. He tucked it away in his mind: a puzzle to pick at on a rainy day. He would write it down later, in his small, neat hand on his expensively fine paper, and store it with the rest in the leather wallet around his neck. He had developed a shorthand of his own now, and kept the details of each entry brief and to the point. Only memories of his past, or points deemed worthy about his current life, found their way into that secret cache of information. He had a full year to fit in there, and he was barely over a third of the way through it.

"How much longer do you believe Brother Benoit's woodpile ought to be taking up valuable storage space in my cellar?" Brother Odo murmured in his deep, gentle voice. "Our winter stores may be depleted, but spring is rising once more and I must replenish them for our Easter feasting."

"Believe me, Brother, we're all working as hard as we can on this," replied Guillaume smoothly. He raised one of the crates he was helping the cellarer reposition and paused. "Forgive me, Brother, but where exactly do you plan on finding this feast of yours? It may have escaped your notice tucked away up here, but the marketplaces down the hill are having a hard enough time supplying the city in Lent! If we barely have enough for fasting, isn't feasting pushing things a bit?"

"Ah," nodded Odo, taking the crate and adding it to the stack he was building. "I see. Of course, you would not know, or perhaps simply not remember, that each year a great supplement of resources is sent from our brethren at home in France. It is due to land at our largest port in three weeks time and I must go to meet the ship. I, along with a company of our fearless knights and some men to aid in the general transport of the goods, must depart on our journey to Acre this next week if we are to be there in time. Brother Gaston will take over my duties, with Astralabe to aid him, but I would rather have the timber removed before I leave, or I must leave instructions that it remain untouched until my return. I cannot risk untutored hands and feet disturbing my cellar once I have readied it for the arrival of the Easter feast."

"I would gladly offer my services as aide to the good Brother and the boy," smiled Guillaume, seeing, for the first time in the long afternoon, a glimmer of light in the darkness. "I'm a quick study, and I can oversee the removal of the timber in your absence if it cannot be taken out before your departure. I oversaw its arrival after all."

"This I know, brother," smiled Odo in return, wagging a finger at Leonard. "But I have greater need of you elsewhere. I have petitioned the abbot, and Brother Benoit, that I might have you lead the company of men chosen to join me on this arduous, and not a little dangerous, journey to the sea. You have shown yourself to have a quick mind and a strong will, and the men respect and listen to you. You will do well as their leader. You have also shown yourself to be of great use applying that mind to the problems and challenges that have faced many in the city since your arrival, not least your brothers here. Finally, you are one of the strongest and fittest of our workers. Had you been brought to me in mail I would not have questioned your place as a knight. Beyond your memory lack, your health has been second only to our noble-born brothers and I have no doubts that we will find the ability to wield a weapon another of your hidden skills."

The light at the end of the tunnel seemed to be rapidly becoming a train. Leonard's inner face fell. His outer face merely bowed serenely, under the guise of Guillaume, and broadened it's smile. "You certainly seem to have a very high opinion of me, Brother."

"I have no opinion beyond that which my eyes show me and my mind deduces," shrugged the tall Parisian, waving away the idea as if it were no more than a gnat. "You have the musculature of a fighter, the carriage of command and the education of the wealthy, these things suggest only two possibilities: either you were born a noble or raised in a nobleman's household, perhaps as the child of their chief man-at-arms."

"Logical," mused Guillaume, nodding leisurely, "but not the only possibilities. You're assuming I was born one of the good guys. Maybe I was raised a thief? Taught how to fight and plan because my life or my freedom depended on it. Used to command by taking it and earning it. Wise to the world because not being so would have destroyed me long before I wound up on your doorstep."

"I take your point," laughed Brother Odo, tugging at his short beard in thought, "but your education is something finer than you could purchase, or perhaps steal, in a life of thievery. You can read. And write! I have heard tell of your buying ink and paper in the markets. Not only that, but in several languages! I have heard an intelligent man, regardless of previous learning, may hear a tongue and, eventually, understand it. You understand many, and speak them all fluently! No, your first two deductions I will grant possible, but the third? On the question of your education I must stand firm. You were not born a thief."

"No man is, Brother, but many are raised that way."

"Then if so, you were a man when you took up that line of work. A man of learning and sophistication. Strong and subtle. Clear and decisive."

Leonard tipped his head to the side, considering how he might bring the conversation back to his all too imminent departure, and how to prevent it. "Let's agree to disagree on this one, Brother. Either way, saint or sinner, I still feel I would be of more use to you here, helping your boy, Astralabe. What if there's some emergency he and Brother Gaston are not equipped to deal with? You know a man with my talents, hidden or otherwise, would be of undeniable use then."

"You have my thanks, brother," sighed Odo, turning and grasping Leonard's hand firmly. "Both for your efforts here today and your offer of help here in my absence. Your worry for the boy and my duties does you credit. The likelihood of such an emergency is remote: do not fear. My young apprentice has governed Brother Gaston in the running of this cellar many times, when my duty has called me elsewhere, and there has never been an incident they could not deal with sufficiently. My mind is made up. You will be my seneschal for the journey. The command of our un-tonsured brethren will be yours. We leave for Acre in five days, to arrive by the end of March."

XXXX

"How many more of these things are there?" Jax grumbled, looking up from his spot under the console. "Try it now."

Rip pressed a small button on the side of the console. It blinked back into life. "That seems to have worked," he mused, tapping a few more buttons just to make sure. "Yes, that'll do nicely. In answer to your question, Mister Jackson, there are a good half dozen more that we know about and who knows how many that we don't. Unfortunately, temporal blindspots are by their very nature difficult to detect. Without the Oculus, one might even say: impossible!"

"But the ones you know, and that Gideon knows," Jax persisted. "They the same ones all you captains know?"

Rip considered this. "I suppose it is a possibility that a few Time Captains, being able to return to the Vanishing Point to update their timestream data _without_ fear of imprisonment, torture and death, _may_ know a few more than we do, but there's nothing we can do about that now. Not until Captain Johnson finishes the rebuilding work."

"So this era we're going to, and this place," Jax continued. "We gonna have to go native with the weaponry again? 'Cause my shootin' skills ain't exactly up to your level and I don't much feel like lookin' even more of a fool this week."

"Yes, I'm afraid we will have to 'go native' as you put it," muttered Rip, running various diagnostics and checking readings. "Not that you yourself have to come along, of course. We're not hiding out here, merely looking around for a possibly friendly face. The mission shouldn't require all of us."

"When has _that_ ever ended well?" Jax muttered under his breath. "Still, if you don't think you'll need me, I'll sit this one out if that's okay, Captain."

"Well, you might change your tune when you see where we're going," mused Rip. "Any good with a lance?"

Jax's head appeared over the side of the console, the tools he had been packing up lying forgotten on the floor. "You mean like a _lance_ lance. Like a spear that you hold on horseback lance?"

"Well, I did _not_ mean Sara."

"We going to a joust? For real? An actual joust?"

Rip smirked and nodded. He ducked and winced when Jax sprang up whooping and punching the air.

"Aw man, I love all that King Arthur, knights of the round table stuff!" Jax cheered, grinning from ear to ear.

"No Arthurs, kings or otherwise, in this era," Rip told the young man calmly. "The historical evidence for King Arthur and his knights puts him much farther back in history, although much of the dark ages themselves are almost _global_ temporal blindspots. No, this is the era of the real knight in shining armour, or chain mail anyway, not Mallory's romanticised version. It is the time of the crusades, or between them. The time of the Knights Templar, in their infancy. The time before jousting became non-lethal and ruled by the laws of chivalry. If you get into a joust here, you may be expected to fight with a lance or any other weapon. You might also find your opponent less willing to heed the cry of 'yield', though, so I would try and avoid it as far as possible. Gideon?"

"Yes, Captain Hunter?"

"Tell everyone to make their way to the bridge," ordered Rip, tapping controls from the captain's chair. Behind him, Jax hurried to put away his toolbox like the child who believes tidying up quickly will really make Santa arrive early. Rip settled himself in the chair and watched the young man do the same in one of the passenger seats. "We're ready for our next adventure."

"When and where are we going now?" Ray asked, wandering onto the bridge with the others a few minutes later.

"Eleven thirty, Doctor Palmer," Rip grinned, feeling a little tinge of normality return to his life. "I might even let you be a knight in shining armour. A crusader knight, in the port of Acre, fresh off the spring supply ship at the end of March."


	30. A Time to Explore

The port of Acre had suffered much during the last few generations. Like most towns in such circumstances, the chaos and destruction had demolished the Acre of long ago in both form and spirit. In its stead, growing up like a lupin in poor soil, a new Acre was forming. The buildings were battered and bruised, and in some cases completely gone; the ruling power had been overthrown and exchanged for another; many families had suffered great loss, on both sides of the conflict; and yet life rolled on, blaming none and excusing none, dealing out its joys and sorrows regardless of creed or colour, ruler or ruled, winner or loser, rich or poor, good or evil. Blind fortune, discharging her heartless duty as the seasons turned on their wheel from winter into spring. As the seasons turned, so had the years, mixing men and women of all races, richness, and religions in the melting pot of the port.

Traders hawked their wares at the marketplace, bartering for gold or goods as they saw fit. Sailors lounged against walls or posts, or busied themselves aboard vessels putting in or out of harbour, or sometimes staggered slovenly from dark doors whose signs promised alcohol or other vices denied them at sea. Men at arms stationed in the town patrolled or guarded, while others of their ilk, newly arrived, supervised the unloading of the cargo they accompanied, awaited orders, or, where no orders were awaited, strolled dauntless through the crowds in search of trinkets, food, or lodging. Monks and other men of God averted their eyes from the temptations ensnaring their less watchful brethren, and often from the needy also. There were women around the port, and children too. The children ran too and fro, darting amongst the distracted newcomers. Some carried little trays of sweetmeats to sell, others picked the pockets of the buyers. The women ranged from the sellers in the marketplace, in shops or stalls, to the servants out buying the day's foodstuffs or on some other errand; from the well clad ladies out to amuse themselves in the excitement of the new arrivals, to the lonely souls begging by their feet; from the modestly covered Muslim women and Christian nuns, to the brash and bawdy barmaids selling more than simply beer. All of life can be seen in a port, if one only knows where to look.

XXXX

Leonard watched a small child careen into a richly clad man, some kind of merchant he guessed, and stumble away towards him. The man was sharper than some and his hand went instantly to his scrip to find it missing. He turned, calling out after the boy. Leonard stepped serenely into the child's path, blocking his escape. The boy cannoned into him, now running full tilt, and slipped through his grasp. His triumph was short lived, however, as the muscular arms of Brother Odo reached down and swept him up off his feet.

"Now then, child, why might you flee a man when he calls you?" Brother Odo enquired, holding the wriggling boy tightly while the merchant approached. "Be still, and if you have done no wrong, no wrong will come to you."

"Well might he struggle then," raged the merchant, coming to a stop before the monk and his burden. "A purse of silver he has had from me this very instant! Impudent wretch! Return what you have stolen or it will be the worse for you!"

"I have taken nothing," the child wailed, still struggling in his bonds. "I only was knocked into the gentleman's legs by the crowd. I have nothing but what's mine by right, and little enough of that!"

"A fine tale for an untutored whelp," snarled the merchant, raising his hand. "Perhaps I can better teach you the value of truth than words!"

A broad forearm blocked the blow even as it descended to the boy's head.

"If this child has taken ought from you, my brother," intoned Brother Odo sharply, "then you and I together will take him to answer for it. But had he stolen even the legendary gold of Ophir, I would not let you strike him. It is not for you to deal out judgement, or punishment."

"I tell you he _has_ taken from me," spat back the merchant, choler darkening his features. "I keep my hand always on my scrip in crowds such as these. He knocked my hand away and, when I returned it to its usual place, the scrip was gone!"

"Then perhaps it was not merely your hand the boy knocked away, but the scrip too," suggested the cellarer.

"Don't be naive, man!" The merchant shook off Odo's arm and made another lunge for the boy.

"Your pardon, good sir," interrupted Leonard, smoothly inserting himself between accused and accuser, keen blue eyes glittering beneath the hood of his black travelling cloak. "Is this the item you were enquiring after? I picked it up from where your feet kicked it as it fell."

Dangling it from its strings, Leonard held up the leather bag, swinging it to and fro in front of the irate merchant's reddening nose. It bulged with the shapes of coins, pressed into the leather from within by the weight of more of the same. It would have been a fine catch for any thief, but none with Snart's sense would have attempted something quite so easily, or so soon, missed.

Something that sounded weakly like an attempt at a growl emanated from the merchant's throat. He snatched the purse from the air before him and flounced back into the depths of the crowd.

"Now then, child," sighed Brother Odo, "stop kicking like a frog out of water and let me know whose neck my friend and I have just saved. Speak plain boy: you have nothing to fear here and much to gain."

"If I am a frog, sir, you are a bear," retorted the young thief. "Let me loose enough to breathe and maybe I'll tell you."

"You have air enough to breathe if you have air enough to ask for it!" Odo laughed, loosening his hold just a little all the same.

"Talk," purred Leonard, fixing an unblinking, catlike stare on the child now quieted before him, "and if we think you're telling the truth, we might be inclined to feed you."

XXXX

"Watch where you point that thing!"

"Are we seriously letting him bring that?"

"How come I don't get one?"

"I feel it incumbent on me to point out..."

"It's gonna be Ray and the toy lightsaber all over again!"

"Hey!"

"Aw, come on! Rip said I could!"

Rip Hunter dragged a hand across his face. Sometimes he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I believe I said such things were used in jousts, Mister Jackson and, while it is indeed likely that we may find ourselves involved in one, this particular foray is merely to gather information on our surroundings and track down our lost sheep. No need for such an... er... obvious weapon. Not at present. Later perhaps."

"Well, can't I bring it along," Jax pouted, turning the lance over in his hands and narrowly missing Amaya for the third time that morning. "Y'know: just in case?"

The response was unanimous. "No!"

"Mister Jackson, if you would please return the lance to the armoury," Rip held up his hands to placate the sullen glare from Jax, "for the moment. The barracks are at the opposite end of the city from the port, they are run by the Knights of Saint John in their fortress there, and I should warn you there is no guarantee there will be any sort of training ongoing when we do eventually get there, or that you will be invited to join in. In the event of such an occurrence, however, or should any of our number - and it worries me that I do indeed have to use the word ' _any_ ' - start a fight, I do assure you there will be lances available for your use if you are found in want of one."

"If you need it and you don't have it, they'll lend you one," translated Amaya, glaring daggers at the would-be crusader.

"Yeah, I got that," glowered Jax, returning her glare with narrowed eyes. He slunk out of the hold, shoulders sunk and spirits visibly dampened. As he retreated up the stairs, Martin's eyes rolled heavenward and his shoulders dropped in a silent sigh. A disembodied voice echoed down the stairs. "I felt that, Grey!"

XXXX

The common style of flat roofs allowed many possible resting sites for the Waverider, but by far the easiest was that of a large building that wrapped itself around an inner courtyard of roughly rectangular shape. Rip had brought the ship down on one of the two broader sides of the building, invisible from long before, and pointed out the various entrances and exits from the rooftop. They had descended to the courtyard, finding it a hustle and bustle of colour, scent and sound. Vibrant silks, soft wools, mouth-watering spices, heady floral perfumes, loud arguments, hushed conversations: all filled the square like water at high tide.

"Is this some kind of marketplace?" Rex frowned, ducking under a roll of carpet carried on two sets of apparently headless shoulders.

"Not exactly," explained Rip, standing on tiptoe to locate the arching entrance, and exit. "More like a holding place for the merchants and their goods. This city was a hub of commerce long before the crusaders got here. Silk traders, spice traders, wools, incense, gems, furs: everything! It all went through here. The centre of the known world. The marketplace itself, well: that's another matter. Not everything you see here is sold there. No, many of _these_ goods are destined for much further afield. The market we are headed for is much more, well, downmarket, you might say. Ebullient street vendors, canopied shop fronts, all facing their source of produce, and one of their main sources of income: the port."

"And we're headed there instead of the barracks because?" Jax grumbled.

"Information, Mister Jackson!" Rip laughed, finally spotting the opening he was after and making a beeline towards it. "Ninety percent of what goes on in a port has something to do with the port itself, especially in this era. The sea is the lifeblood of Acre! Either amongst the seamen, the sellers or the swordsmen, we'll find something about our mystery malcontent."

The streets were narrow, often to the extent that the team were forced to process in single file, especially where Mick was concerned, but they soon opened up into a wide plaza. Once again, an explosion of sound and scents assaulted the team. They stood silent for a moment, taking in the rows of stalls, their tented roofs fluttering in a breeze caused wholly by the perpetual motion of people below them. Voices called out their wares, stilling only to pay heed to those who stopped to buy.

"Spread out," ordered Rip, silently praying that the rest of his commands would be heeded with as much diligence. "Remember, only buy something to curry favour - and only if you really have to - or to avoid suspicion. No fighting, unless it's to defend yourself, definitely no superpowers, and absolutely, decidedly, completely _no drinking_!"

"Spoilsport," rumbled Mick into his ear in passing.

Over to the right of the group, an argument broke out.

"Wasn't me!" Sara chimed through her comms.

"Or me!" Mick added through his.

One by one the other Legends affirmed their innocence. Rip rolled his eyes. "I swear, we only have to show up somewhere now and a fight breaks out!"

He craned his neck to cast a glance in the direction of the uproar. It had, at least, taken the attention away from the overly large and oddly diverse group he had just dispersed into the mix. At first glance it seemed to be some manner of man, Venetian by his hat, yelling at a tonsured monk. A movement suddenly revealed a struggling child in the man's arms and Rip nodded in understanding. A young cutpurse, and one of the unlucky ones. There but by the grace of God, he thought. A hooded figure interposed itself between the men, dangling something before the Venetian. The angry man took it and disappeared into the crown. His monetary pound of flesh, thought Rip, turning away from the scene with a shrug.


	31. A Time to Dare

Rip sidled through the crowds lining the docks. Most there had business with the ships in port, either involving their care or their contents. A few had no business there at all but to see what they could filch. With one ear attentive to the varied reports, complaints and squabbles incoming from his crew, he kept the other open for mention of the ships now in harbour, their origins and their destinations, their crew and their cargo. Most were a mixture of Venetian or Genoan trading vessels, a few flew the imperial ensign of the Byzantines. The galleys that caught Rip's eye, however, were those that bore the Papal flag of Rome, or that of the Holy Roman Empire, and the white cross on red of the Hospitallers or the similar design of the Templars. This was the first volley of supply ships, crossing the sea from ports on the far side of the Mediterranean. Three galleys rested side by side, the black and yellow standard of the Holy Roman Empire hanging limp and crumpled in the still air from their topgallants. Their names and colours suggested home ports in what would one day be called France. Rip traded a few coins for information from some of the dock hands nearby and turned in search of his crew. He had barely reached the hustle and bustle of the market when a hand arrested his movements and dragged him back out of the crowd.

"I really hate to tell you this," began a rather sheepish Ray, "but I think either Mick or Sara just invented the sea shanty a few centuries early."

Rip's shoulders drooped. "Oh, for the love of... They probably didn't," he groaned, "but best not to take any chances. Which pub?"

XXXX

The boy was a bag of bones. Wide, dark eyes darted hither and thither even once removed to one of the quieter corners of the harbour area. Brother Odo crouched before the child, blocking escape in one direction. Leonard lounged against the wall, blocking escape in the other.

"Come now, little frog," cajoled Odo, handing the boy his water skin. "By the grace of God you have been rescued from a fate that would have cost you dearly. Say into what strife you have been thrown that you must take such risk upon yourself."

The child took the proffered drink and held the skin to his lips, taking the time it afforded him to consider carefully. "I owe money," he began, finally, handing the skin back to the monk. "More than I can make any other way."

"How can one so small bear a debt so great?" Odo scoffed. "Come child: be right with us and we'll be right with you."

"I am not lying," the boy cried, dismayed. "I must have the money, and before the high tide tomorrow!"

Odo frowned. Leonard, listening carefully, his gaze fixed on the hanging sideoar of a galley moored opposite the far end of the street they were in, did not. "You want to buy a passage out of here? Why not just stow away? You're small enough."

"No! That is not why," he corrected his rescuer, turning to face him. "I do not want to get on a ship, but to get someone off of one. My brother. He has been taken. And the captain, he will not let him go. He says he is his now and if I want him back, I must pay. I must buy him back. And he sails with the tide, tomorrow."

"Why not just steal him back?" Leonard drawled, eyes flicking, narrowed, to the young face now watching his. "You don't seem to have any problem taking what _isn't_ yours..."

"His men guard him, and the others, day and night," explained his young acolyte. "I have watched them, but they know me. I could never get past them. Even if I did, I could never get out again! He would take me too, or kill me. He has two men on each door on deck, and others to see to the ship's usual wants. I know there are more, maybe a score of such at most. My brother, he is with the others he has taken, stored like barrels below."

Leonard turned his gaze fully onto the child. "Why exactly are you telling _me_ all this?"

"You asked," replied the child, blinking his wide eyes in Leonard's direction.

"Technically," Leonard granted, inclining his head a little to one side, "But that ain't the only reason."

The boy held Leonard's gaze for a while, his eyes growing wider and rounder all the while. When he found Leonard was better at this game than he, he deflated somewhat, his small brow wrinkling. "I cannot steal my brother back from this man, sir," he admitted. "I lack the skill. You do not. I will pay you. Everything I have taken so far. I have only taken from such as can afford it. Wealthy men. Like the merchant you caught me with. Please, sir, you must help me! You must save him! I know you can. The good God sent you to me to save us both. Please, sir! I know you could, if you only would!"

"Enough," sighed Leonard, casting an astute glance over at Odo, gauging the monk's opinion. He pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to the cellarer to help him rise. "Either show me the vessel or describe it well enough I cannot mistake it. Tell me everything you have seen so far, and everything you know of this man and his crew. There is long enough until sunset. We should be able to conclude our business and have a little time left over."

XXXX

By the time Ray and Rip descended the steps from the marketplace into the tavern, the strains of the Drunken Sailor were audible, if not entirely bearable, out in the street. Ray, always one to see the best in things, was wincing from the moment they opened the door. Rip cast a glance around, spotting Martin attempting to coerce Mick into silence, and sobriety, and Jax apologising to the natives whose table Sara was currently dancing on.

"Right! Miss Lance! Mister Rory! Time to go!" Rip yelled, removing the tankard from Mick's grasp and holding up a pacifying hand to the increasingly irate customers who had already suffered bumps, spills and general disruption to cheerful drinking hours by strangers that could neither carry a tune nor keep it to themselves. Rip turned the grumbling mountain that was Mick into Ray's hands, to be assisted out of the door as soon as humanly possible. It took the added persuasion of both Jax and Stein to get him there. Rex and Amaya, Rip noticed were nowhere to be found. Hopefully they were putting their time to better use. He turned to Sara, his eyes flicking up over her ragged choice of costume then down to the table top. "Time to go Miss Lance. Can you descend from your lofty heights yourself or do I have to play catch?"

Sara, only slightly wobbly once she stopped to turn to him, hopped down from her platform in sudden silence. "I'm not the one on the high horse, _Captain_!"

Rip barely had time to draw breath in reply before he felt her push past him, deliberately colliding with his shoulder. Quite deliberately, he was sure. And there had been a glare along with it, he was certain. He set his hands on his hips and sighed, casting his eyes upward in silent prayer, or curse. By the time he turned Sara was at the bar again. Beer was not her goal this time, it seemed. Instead, she had a besotted young sailor by the kerchief, her lips firmly pressed to his. Rip folded his arms and waited, fingers digging into their hold, lips drawn into a thin, pale line, eyes averted. He heard the familiar drunken giggle and reached out, one arm closing about her waist, the other removing her ardent new paramour.

"Come on, fun's over," he sighed, dragging Sara out of the sailor's arms and toward the door. "We do have work to do here."

"Yeah, I can walk," snapped the assassin, disentangling herself from his grasp and pushing the tavern door open with far more force than was ever necessary.

Rip watched her pick her way up the steps into daylight and turned, removing the purse of coins from his belt and throwing it to the innkeeper. "That should cover their damages and leave some left over. My apologies, they haven't been off the ship in... quite some time."

He darted out the door, just swinging to, and heard the rumble of "bloody pirates" from the bar behind him. It almost made him laugh. Almost. Sara, Mick, Ray, Jax and Martin were awaiting him in the eves of the tavern, the scowls on the miscreants' faces telling him everything he needed to know about their opinions of their captain and crew mates.

"Shall we do this here or back on board?" Rip snapped, earning him a pair of eye rolls the moodiest of teenagers would have been proud of.

"Believe it or not we were actually working," slurred Mick, leaning heavily against the wall.

"We even got some useful information," sniped Sara, her glare daring Rip to match her.

Rip kept his gaze fixed on the roof of the tavern just above their heads. "Back to the ship then, where we can all compare notes and some of us can sober up. Rex, Amaya: report back to the Waverider."

An array of startled faces looked from one to the other as a response notably failed to arrive.

"Rex? Amaya?" Rip tried again. No response. "Gideon, where are they?"

"My sensors last detected Madame Jiwe and Doctor Tyler in a narrow street south of your current position, Captain," replied Gideon, "however, it appears that their communications devices were damaged or destroyed. I can no longer find them anywhere."

"There go the newbies," muttered Mick. "Maybe they've decided to run off together and live happily ever after while they got the chance."

"I don't think our little Vixen would run off in the middle of a 'quest'," snarked Sara, her eyes still fixed solidly on Rip. "Certainly not with the Tin Man there."

Rip's jaw tightened. He drew in a long, steady breath, then turned to Ray, Jax and Martin. "I agree with Miss Lance: abandonment of their duty is not in either of their characters. Doctor Palmer, Mister Jackson, would you follow Gideon's directions to their last known position and investigate please. Professor, if you would be so good as to assist me in returning our two black sheep to the ship, perhaps we four can then concentrate on finding the lost one we came here for!"

XXXX

Rex shook his head. His ears were ringing. He blinked, willing the blurred shapes before him to resolve themselves into a clear image. How long had he been out? He glanced upwards. The sky was a clear cerulean blue between the rooftops, just as it had been when last he looked. The shadows seemed to have moved some, but he could not swear by how much. He pushed himself to his feet, dusting down his garments and inspecting himself for damages. His scrip and dagger were gone, but that was to be expected. His boots were gone too. That was more of a surprise. No matter. Boots or no boots, Amaya was in far worse state than he. He touched a hand to his ear. His comms were gone. He was alone then. So be it. The others would notice his and Amaya's absence eventually, and would come looking. He couldn't wait for them. He had to go after her. All he could do was leave them clues.

Rex cast about him for something hard and found a broken shard of wood. It would have to do. The walls on either side of him were of hardened mud. He scraped the shard across the surface of the wall nearest him, marking an arrow in the direction he intended to go - the direction he had seen his attackers carry off his comrade - and the jagged form of the letters R and X, then took to his heels, following the narrow street down to the docks.


	32. A Time to Fight

"I cannot believe you two! I distinctly remember saying _no drinking_!" Rip ranted as soon as the Waverider's door closed behind them.

"Yeah, well _you_ try getting information out of a bunch of drunk sailors when _you're_ stone cold sober and see how far _you_ get!" Sara shot back. "We weren't getting _anything_ out of them without having had a beer or two ourselves!"

"A beer or two is one thing!" Rip argued, throwing a hand out to help Martin guide a weaving Mick up the stairs before he collided with a wall. "Sara, you were dancing on the tables! Literally!"

"Well maybe I ain't as think as you drunk I am!" Sara hit back with, pushing past the captain to help Mick and Martin up the stairs.

"That's hardly a winning argument," scoffed Rip, following as the other three proceeded towards the medical bay. "Did you even listen to what you just said?"

"Oh come on! It's a classic! Everyone knows that joke, Rip!"

"How exactly..."

"I believe it was first used in a TV show called Mash, Captain," muttered Martin, in a daring attempt to change the subject. "That's M. A. S. H.: Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. Major Margaret "Hot-lips" Houlihan, the head nurse, to Hawkeye - that is, Captain Pierce - the chief surgeon. She _was_ that drunk. I do not believe the phrase has been used by a _truly_ inebriated individual ever since!"

"Thank you!" Sara exclaimed, throwing up her spare hand.

"I don't feel too good," murmured Mick with a groan.

"Not on this floor Mick," warned Sara. "Once we're in the medbay you can throw up as much as you like, but not here."

The medical bay lay before them, its smooth pristine surfaces shining almost like a challenge. They dropped Mick into a chair by a bucket that lay too suspiciously close to the door for Rip's liking. Martin hurried to fetch a second bucket, just in case, and Rip and Sara slipped away.

"Exactly how much did you let him drink?" Rip exclaimed, following his second in command through the silver grey corridors.

"How much did I _let_ him drink?" Sara echoed, still storming away from her captain. "Mick's a grown man, Rip: he makes his own choices. I'm not his mother!"

"Fine: how much did he drink, then?"

"Whatever they bought him and half of what they bought me," she replied, throwing up her hands and shrugging. "One of us had to try and stay sober."

Sara slipped around a corner into the fabrication room, slamming a hand on the door sensor. Rip, close on her heels, skidded to a halt as the grey metal slid into place before him: a guillotine, cutting off their conversation at its head. It refused to open to him.

"We are not done here!" Rip yelled at his fuzzy reflection.

A distant beep sounded. The door slid open. Sara was on the far side of the room, flicking through suggested costumes on a monitor. "You wanna watch me get changed, fine," she retorted, making a selection and walking over to the fabricator. "No skin off my nose."

"Don't be such a _child_ , Sara!" Rip cried, waving a hand at the sensor to close the door behind him. "You can't just walk away from conversations you don't like!"

"Believe me," she snorted, untying the cord that had formed the belt of her outfit, "there are some conversations it really is better I walk away from!"

"You have no idea..." Rip began, striding over to her.

"You need to trust me," snapped Sara, her eyes shooting up to him and stopping him in his tracks. It did not escape her how quickly he turned away.

Rip's reply was as swift as his movements. "I do!"

Sara shook her head. "Not entirely!"

"Nobody trusts anyone entirely!" Rip scoffed, his hands finding familiar ground on his hips.

"With missions then," she compromised, shuffling out of her costume while his back was turned. He seemed in no hurry to change that position.

"How can I when you still head straight for the first bar you find no matter where we are?"

"Where else do you plan on finding drunken locals willing to talk to a pretty face," she enquired lightly, "or for a drink or money to buy one?"

Rip chewed his lip, his eyes fixed on the floor. She had a point. "What did they tell you, then?"

"Oh look: a _useful_ question!" Sara chimed, and he could imagine the faux smile plastered on her face as she said it.

"Sara..."

"There are three ships docked in the harbour, all flying the flag of the Holy Roman Empire..."

"Standard," muttered Rip through gritted teeth.

"Whatever," snapped Sara, pulling a loose, dark chemise over her head. "There are three ships, they are called 'La Sagesse', 'Le Courage' and..."

"And our man's on the third one, I know," growled Rip, his hands digging in to their hold. "I got that much down at the docks asking the sober locals!"

"You could have said!"

"I just did!"

"Ugh!"

Rip heard the faint clink of knives and rolled his eyes. "Are the weapons absolutely necessary?"

"If they aren't nobody will ever know they are there," Sara shot back.

"We haven't even decided on a plan yet!"

"Speak for yourself!"

Rip let go of his hips and folded his arms, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. "Fine. What's your plan?"

"Your lost captain is now captaining an entirely different kind of ship," she began, still fixing the knives into place in her garments. "According to my sources, he intends to leave tonight. Did your sources tell you that?"

"No, but..."

"You want to talk to this guy before he heads off into the mediaeval Mediterranean," she continued, ignoring his attempt to answer further, "so my plan is to sneak on board, knock him out and get him back here. The ship won't sail without it's captain and, if he's time drifted, he'll stand a better chance of getting back to himself on a time ship than a sailing one."

"And you think they'll just let you waltz off with their captain?" Rip countered, mentally counting the knives. "Hi guys, don't mind me. Captain Clemonds and I just have a little catching up to do? Oh, no wait: you don't know what name he's using in this time period, because heaven help us if Mallory Clemonds is caught using his own name in anything but his own ship! The man's the closest thing to a pirate the Time Masters ever employed! I'd be amazed if _they_ even knew his real name!"

"Are you done?"

"Not really, but I doubt it'll make any difference!"

"Oh, come on, Rip: do you seriously think I haven't thought this through?" Sara was aware her voice had started to rise. Was he trying to get a reaction out of her or was she pushing him to break through his mask of sarcasm and bluster? "Or are you the only person in this crew capable of coming up with a plan?"

"I generally share the details..."

"You _never_ share the details!"

"The ones the rest of you need to know, I do!"

"You _dictate_ what you want the rest of us to do, you mean!" This was good, Sara thought. He was on the defensive. He never liked being on the defensive. Not when he couldn't see ten moves ahead of his opponent. "You lay us out on your little mental chessboard like pawns, give your orders and expect us to behave like good little soldiers. News flash, Rip: nobody here is a soldier. The only people currently on your crew with a history of taking orders, with the exception of little miss perfect and the tin man whom I _still_ know next to nothing about, are me and Mick! Ray does what he's told, most of the time. He's not a soldier, he's a boy scout. Martin does what he's told, sort of, sometimes, if he doesn't think he knows better. And there are very few subjects that covers. Jax does what he's told _if_ he agrees with the majority, and that's only because he knows what it means to work as part of a team! Hardly fits itself to a general commanding an army, does it?"

"And yet the one thing I decidedly, _definitively_ asked you _not_ to do was the _one_ thing you did!"

There were definitely cracks beginning to show in the mask now. "They're not terribly big on soft drinks in the twelfth century, Rip!"

"Then why go to a pub?"

"You know damn well a bar is the easiest place to get people to talk! You're just pissed you didn't think of it first!"

"The only person pissed around here is Mister Rory! Out of his _skull_ by the look of it!"

"He'll be fine!" Sara yelled, completely finished armouring her new costume. "You can look by the way. I'm done."

"Not the point!" Rip snapped, turning and looking over her new attire with a wary eye. "If we had needed him..."

"We didn't!" Sara stormed towards him. Look up. Just look up, damn you.

"Again! Not the point!" Rip swung away, one hand in the air, the other coming to rest on the bridge of his nose. "We cannot afford to take chances like that! With the oculus gone, we have no way of knowing what we might be dealing with here. There could be any number of infinitesimal changes we could make here that tear the future timeline to utter shreds!"

"Like what? Forcibly removing the captain of a Holy Roman Empire supply boat?"

"Ship."

"Or maybe losing two of our crew in the marketplace? Oh yeah, don't think that didn't pass me by. I was _acting_ drunk, remember?"

"Precisely why we need to come up with a coherent plan to retrieve Doctor Tyler and Madame Jiwe _before_ attempting to accost Captain Clemonds!"

"We know where he is," Sara pointed out, folding her arms. "We don't know where they are!"

"Doctor Palmer and Mister Jackson are investigating as we speak," Rip retorted, waving a hand in the air, "and I am confident they..."

"So now you have confidence in a nerd and a mechanic, but not me," she shot back, hands making fists by her sides. "What? Too scared I'll let my bloodlust out it's little box and run amok in the middle of one of the most important ports of the twelfth century?"

"The thought had crossed my mind!"

"You know I haven't let the monster out of its cage in months!" Careful, Sara thought, listening to the frustration rise in her voice. He's the one you want to lose their cool, not you.

"I also know the last episode involved you, alcohol and going off on your own!"

"Well we've already established I'm not drunk, and I have no intention of going off on my own!"

"And who exactly were you planning on taking with you?" Rip queried, throwing out his other hand now and letting both fall back to his hips. "Mister Rory can barely stand and, no offence to him, but the Professor is hardly top of my list for a wing man on a mission like this!"

"Just as well I choose you then, isn't it!" Sara spat back. That stopped him in his tracks. The head turned slightly towards her. She could see his profile now. His eyes glanced in her direction, but only for a moment and not at her face. She set her feet and folded her arms once more. "I can get us in easily enough, but getting out with an unwilling or unconscious passenger was always going to be difficult. Taking you with me means if he hasn't time drifted you can talk to him there and then. Save everyone the bother of having to fight our way out, hopefully."

Rip was silent. His face turned away from her again, staring at something, or nothing, in the opposite direction.

"Ah," he said. "Yes, that does make more sense."


	33. A Time to Take

The slave trader's ship was a small, two masted galley, its sails sloping in a triangular lateen rig. Devoid of the fore and aft castles of most sailing vessels of Leonard's acquaintance, he searched its sides for another route on board. Windows were no longer an option. He would have to risk the deck itself. His young employer's directions had been clear and careful; as much as he needed to know and not one cent more. The kid was no fool: he knew a thief when he saw one. Searching the ship for anything other than his brother would be too great a risk in these circumstances.

From his place in the shadows, Leonard noted the changing of the guards on the two doors, one at either end of the vessel. There was a trapdoor too: right slap bang in the middle of the main deck where any attentive guard would spot him immediately. The sloping sails were furled, providing absolutely no help in the way of cover. The activity at one end of the ship told him that preparations were under way to leave harbour. An ant-like chain of men moved up a boarding plank onto the galley's deck, each with a barrel of something hoisted on their broad shoulders. Well, there was something: he might not be quite such a bulky character, but Leonard figured he could cart goods with the rest of them. He might not have Mick's strength...

Now that was something. Mick. Who was Mick? And why might he pop into Leonard's head right now? The name meant something. Something like brother, but not. He remembered fuzzy images, random glimpses, oddities here and there. Sara. He definitely remembered Sara. And Lisa. He remembered a lot about Lisa. Lisa was his sister. He remembered her as a child, a girl, a woman. Sara... wasn't. Sara was something else. Someone else.

He shook his head. He could delve into his memories later, when the job was done. Right now, he needed a barrel.

XXXX

Rex Tyler's hand automatically went to the scrip that had once been at his side. He sighed and bit back an oath. He should have picked a safer hiding place for the serum. No doubt Rip would have his hide for losing them in a place like this. The miraclo might not be a dropped circuit board from an shrinking exoskeleton, but even the few doses that had been there could turn the tide of history here if they reached the wrong hands. He turned his mind again to the ship that lay before him: a Byzantine dromon preparing to set sail. He had no time to go back to the ship or try to find the others. Amaya's trail led here. Unconscious she may have been, but her kidnappers most certainly were not, and scientists are nature's observers. Well, he mentally corrected himself, thinking of the two physicists he shared a lab with: the biochemists are.

He scratched another R, X and arrow into the compacted dirt by the wall and slipped off to join the line of sailors filing back onto their ship. There were sacks of something by the dockside and he hoisted one onto his shoulder as he passed, following the line up the ramp and down into the belly of the dromon. Below decks was divided into damp, odorous, ill-lit rooms on either side of a single corridor running down the length of the ship. Dock hands and sailors silently dumped their cargo in various rooms: barrels in the first few, sacks in the next. He ditched his load and kept walking, down the corridor, away from the rest of the hubbub. If she was still alive and on board, this was where she would be.

A door divided the fore and aft halves of the galley. It was unguarded. Presumably the captain in question had decided that only the top doors needed guarding. He would learn from his error, if he was lucky. Rex moved silently through the door, closing it just as silently behind him. The darkness here was almost complete. Any false move could be fatal, for him _and_ for Amaya. He froze.

Slowly, the darkness yielded up its secrets. As his eyes grew used to the low light, and his sight improved, the shadowy form of a man resolved itself out of even darker shadows. There was something behind the man: another shape. Was it a comrade in arms? A woman? A slave? A dog? A barrel? Rex's eyes narrowed, trying to make it out. So far, neither it nor the man had moved or even made a sound. Was it just a trick of the light?

Suddenly the shape of the man moved, hurtling toward him on feet as light as a thief's. Rex ducked and dodged, side-stepping the newcomer and throwing an arm out to catch his back and help him and his momentum on their merry way. The shadow man hit the door, but not with the finality Rex had hoped for. He heard the man catch his weight on his arms and push himself back. One of those arms came out of nowhere to catch his side, the elbow narrowly missing his ribs, or maybe it had been aimed at his kidneys. He twisted and caught the attacker's wrist, bending the thumb back and the arm round. A second later and the man had slipped out of his grasp, caught his wrist in a grip of his own and thrown Rex down flat on the floor. A hand fixed itself on his throat and began to squeeze.

"I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you," purred a voice from the darkness over Rex's head. "I'm just here for the boy. You just happened to walk in at the wrong time. Now you have one chance, and I do mean _one_ , to tell me a way out of here for my little friend here and myself that does not involve the slow and painful deaths of you and every other free man aboard this vessel. I'm trying to be a good boy, but I think I could make an exception for a ship full of slavers."

"I'm not with them," Rex gasped, blurting out the words in the short reprieve he had been given for fear there might not be another. "I'm just here for my friend, just like you."

The pressure on his throat relaxed further. "You don't say? Well, isn't that just a pretty little coincidence. This friend have a name or is he just some remarkably recent invention to save your neck?"

"He's a she," pointed out Rex, sitting up and rubbing his throat. "We were attacked. She was brought here."

There was a silent shifting in the air that told Rex his opponent had sat back, weighing his options no doubt.

"A girl hmm?"

"A woman," Rex corrected. "She can fight too. Help me get her out and we'll help you two escape."

"A party of four, huh? Well," mused the voice, a disembodied arm reaching out and grasping Rex's to raise him to his feet, "I guess I could stand for a little help. The name's Guillaume, but try not to yell it too loudly. And you are?"

Rex's mind flitted back to Captain Hunter's little talk on the use of era appropriate pseudonyms before they had left the super-modern safety of the Waverider. "Matthew," he breathed, shaking the shadowy hand of his new partner in crime. "You can call me Matthew."

XXXX

"I look ridiculous!" Rip muttered, following Sara through the darkened streets of Acre, heading back down to the docks.

"Now you know how we feel!" Sara retorted, striding ahead at a pace that belied her diminutive stature.

"I cannot believe I let you pick out clothes for me!" The muttering continued.

Sara, confident that Rip could not see her face, let a smile tug briefly at the corner of her mouth. She marshalled it out of her voice before she answered him. "My plan, my op, my choice of who wears what."

"Sometimes I think you forget _I'm_ supposed to be _your_... boss," sniped Rip, pulling up short at the last word. He drifted into uncomfortable silence.

"Oh, I remember," Sara assured him, breezing ahead in the evening air. "I just don't care."

The sky above was clear, and stars were blinking into life above them, but the moon was not yet up. When Sara held out an arm to halt Rip's progress, he walked right into it. She steered him toward the wall behind her and drew them both down to a crouch. "Look, there's probably gonna be some fighting once we get in there, knowing our luck. Will you be okay?"

"Well, if I'm not, it's a little late to ask," hissed the captain. "I've been okay recently. We'll just have to wait and see."

"Recently, you've had the whole team around you," she pointed out. "It's not too late for me to go in alone. After here, it will be."

"I don't need the whole team," Rip murmured. "We go on. Together. I'll be okay."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"Okay. The ship at the end of this alley is your man's," said Sara, automatically gesturing with hands neither of them could see. "The rudder on these things seems to be part-way down one side and angled to the rear of the ship."

"It's a steering oar. Fairly common on these vessels in this era, even those powered by wind only."

"Whatever. As far as I can make out, there's nobody watching them while they're all neatly tied up in port. The gap they fit through should be large enough for us. We get in the water, swim round to the rudder, oar, and climb up there. That will get us on board..."

"Wringing wet!"

"And all we have to do then is find your friend."

"Friend might be a _little_ strong..."

"If this one tries to punch you too," sighed Sara, rising to her feet, "at least _try_ and block!"

"He won't," he assured her, mirroring her actions.

"At last!" Sara sighed, eyes rolling in the darkness.

"He may try and shoot me though."

XXXX

He did not, in fact, try to shoot either Rip or Sara, although it could certainly be argued he had good cause. They had managed to steal aboard the reasonably sized cog and into the forecastle, where, as expected, Captain Mallory Clemonds was to be found. Unfortunately several of his able seamen were to be found with him. On the bright side, this did make it rather difficult for either captain to reach for his concealed laser pistol. On the other, however, it did make the job of explaining rather more difficult. For a start, it was necessary.

Eventually, Mallory put a hand on the raised sword of the sailor closest to Rip, pressing gently against the flat of the blade. "I'll deal with this, Jean, you go on now."

"But Captain..."

"These folks are here to see me, no-one else," he continued, holding the unfortunate Jean's eye meaningfully. "Now they don't mean me no harm and you can be sure they won't do me none, so why don't you take your boys here and go make sure the last of our cargo is safely stowed below."

The sailors filed out, Jean last of all, and left the trio standing in a rather damp silence. Sara's eyes ranged over the new acquaintance, judging and assessing. He was a little older than Rip, maybe ages with Mick, and closer to Mick's size. He was dressed in the traditional seafarer's garb of the era, but with a distinctly Time Captain-y feel. She wondered if all Time Captains had a proclivity for coats of a brownish colour. First Rip, then Eve, then Amelia, now Mallory. She let her eyes dart from one man to the other. Rip's eyes never left Mallory for a second.

"Well, they ain't gonna wait forever so why don't you just come right out and say it, Rip," sighed Clemonds, slumping down into an ornate chair. "Whatever it is you came to say."

Rip, dripping softly on the wooden floor, moved into the centre of the room, facing his erstwhile colleague. "I'm reforming the Time Masters. Gathering all the captains I know are still out there. Organising them to take over. To fill the void."

"The void you created, if I'm not much mistaken," mused Mallory. "Did you tear it down just to rebuild it with yourself at the helm? There was I thinking you to be a loyal soldier."

"There's a tad more to it than that," Rip winced. "Even I had the barest idea of just how far the rot had set in until _they_ showed me!"

"You swore an oath: to follow where they lead," Mallory pointed out. "We get a fine view of history, that's sure, but we don't see it all. They do. They did. I was there the day you and your little band of desperadoes were dragged in. I was one of the lucky ones. I got out into the black before the proverbial excrement hit the proverbial windmill. Was just about to jump when the whole thing kicked off. I heard the call come through, ordering the captains to their ships. I heard them follow those orders. Those were good folks. Honest. Loyal. I knew 'em all, every one. And I saw what you did to them. I saw your ship attack the Vanishing Point. I watched it blown all to hell, and yours was the only boat to come flying out of that furnace. If you think I'm gonna put that aside now..."

"I did what I had to do," Rip cut in. "My AI will happily fill you in on all the details from her perspective. What happened to those captains and their ships was regrettable but options were limited. If I could have spared them I would have. It was unfortunate that they, like you, just happened to be on the wrong side."

"May have been the losing side," sniffed Mallory, "still not convinced it was the wrong one."

"As I said, my AI..."

"Yeah, yeah, your AI will confirm your story," interrupted Clemonds with a wave of his hand. "Don't matter much what the truth of that story is though, does it? She's _your_ AI. If you can find a way to make the artificial consciousnesses of all those other time ships start singin' songs from the seventies, you can make your own tell any story you like. I'll keep my own counsel from here on out, thank you very much, and I got a job to do here. See the captain of this here ship was meant to see her safe across the sea some seven years from now, ferrying crusaders and cargo to and from the Outremer. Nothing much is heard of him after that, but we know he was around then. Only your little stunt at the Vanishing Point did some damage to my navigation systems and I came down rather heavily on his papa's little farmhouse out in the country one day while he was visiting. Nothing I could do: father and son gone before they could blink. I found the details of his commission, brand new that very day by messenger. I took his name as my own and I've been livin' his life ever since. So far, I ain't had any problems, beyond you, and I don't expect I will for the rest of my time here. Maybe I'll die at the end of it, and maybe I won't, but I swore an oath to protect the timeline and that's what I mean to do, with or without your permission. Now if it ain't too much trouble, I'd take it as a kindness if you'd leave here and never come back. I'd sure like for you to leave the way you came, but I think my boys out there might feel a little hard done by if they don't get to march you off the ship themselves."

Rip stood very still for a moment. There was no point in arguing. If Captain Clemonds had spoken the truth about his arrival, there was no way Rip could remove him from the timeline and risk the damage it might do. Finally, he moved, dragging himself to the door. Sara moved to follow him and he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Seven years is a long time. Time drift will set in."

"I am aware," murmured Clemonds evenly.

"You'll lose yourself. Nobody has ever gone that long and not."

"I am aware of that also," replied the self-stranded Time Captain. "It's a risk I'm willing to take. Sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Rip nodded once and reached out a hand to the door, opening it and ushering Sara through. As he turned to go, the last words of Captain Mallory Clemonds came floating through the aperture.

"Would you?"

XXXX

"Man, this is hopeless!" Jax exclaimed, throwing up his hands and slumping back against a wall. "Rex and Amaya could be anywhere in this mix!"

"Well, I think we might be making some kind of progress," murmured Ray, prodding at the remnants of something shiny in the dirt. "This looks like it might once have been either Rex or Amaya's earpiece."

"We can rebuild a hand from scratch," began Jax, counting items off on his fingers as he went, "travel through time and relative dimension in space, fabricate any food, cash or clothing we want, create translator pills that fix onto our vocal cords, but we can't make an earpiece that doesn't fall out! Great!"

"It's not all bad," grinned Ray, rising to his full height and peering over his companion's shoulder.

"Dude, you are way too cheerful," Jax scoffed, eyebrows raised. "Can you stop? Please!"

"No power in the 'verse can stop me," replied Ray, his grin broadening.

"Either you're quoting something or you just worked something out," surmised the downtrodden mechanic. "You're gonna have to tell me which."

"Eh, a bit of both," Ray shrugged, wrinkling his nose. "Spotted something just behind your left shoulder when I turned the lantern on you."

"And the quote?"

"Oh, you know: that old Joss Whedon show."

"Uh-huh." Jax pushed himself up off the wall in a manner that said clearly he didn't, and turned round. "What'd you see?"

"There," said Ray, pointing at the wall with a stick he had been using on the ground.

Jax turned and saw the letters R and X carved into the wall, next to an arrow pointing toward the harbour. "Man, if they got on a boat we are a whole other level of..."

"Only if the boat has left," interjected Ray. "I have my suit with me. I could easily check all the boats for Rex and Amaya."

"And what did Rip say when you rolled out that idea for finding his friend?"

Ray looked sheepish. "He said 'under no circumstances whatsoever'."

"Yeah, 'cause they don't get a single firefly here, Ray, but they do believe in magic and sorcery and they are _not_ big fans!"

"We follow the arrow, see if he left any others," decided Jax, waving a hand down the street towards the waterfront. "If Rex was able to leave one sign, maybe he left some more. Doesn't explain where Amaya is, but it's the best we got."

"Better, maybe," shrugged Ray. "I mean, think about it: he's leaving signs for us to follow. He's going somewhere. If it was just back to the ship, he wouldn't bother with the arrows. Where else might he be going? And where's Amaya? What if something happened and Amaya was taken? With his earpiece smashed he wouldn't be able to contact us, and if he was able to follow her or whoever took her then he would. What else would he do, then, but leave us something like this?"

Jax nodded. "You might be right. All the more reason to follow the trail then. Come on."


	34. A Time to Live

"Ray, over here!" Jax's voice cut through the dim light shed by the ships' lanterns and their own. The brightening of that light told him his comrade was moving to his side. "It's another arrow, just like the others."

"With the letters?" Ray asked holding the lantern close to where Jax was pointing.

"Yes, with the letters," he retorted, letting his hand fall once he was sure Ray had spotted the marking. "What exactly did you think 'just like the others' meant?"

Ray ignored this, looking from the scratch on the ground to the galley it was pointing at. "I think we've found our ship!"

"Finally!" Jax agreed, his eyes following the line of the arrow to the vessel in question. "Now all we gotta do is get on it and get them back!"

"I don't think we're going to have any problems there," grinned Ray, squinting into the half-light.

"Dude: you are _not_ using that suit!"

"Not what I meant." Ray lifted his free hand and pointed at the far end of the ship. "Look: there's something going on over there. I think, maybe, our newbies have managed to fight their own way out of trouble!"

Jax stared into the night. There _was_ a disturbance of some kind at the other end of the galley. Men were gathering in a small crowd around the top of the boarding plank and barrels, sacks and crates lay unloaded at the bottom of it. The distant sounds of fighting drifted to him. There was no frenzied shouts or screams: these were professional fighters, of a profession that did not enjoy arousing the attention of the locals in the dead of night. The occasional grunt of pain or clash of metal sounded across the waterfront. A glow of blue light split the darkness, rising up in the form of a bear.

"Oh yeah," nodded Jax, pushing himself to his feet, "that's them!"

XXXX

By the time Ray and Jax reached the fight, it was over. Sailors lay sprawled unconscious on the deck and the dock, and Rex was busy hauling one senseless body out of the water. He checked the man's pulse and nodded, leaving him lying on the cold stones of the dock. Amaya appeared on the deck, encouraging wary prisoners out into the freedom of the night and the city. A long trail of men, women and children made their way off the slavers' dromon, ending in a tall, hooded man carrying a boy. They stopped to talk to Amaya and Rex then drifted out into the shadows of the city with the rest.

"There were we just coming to rescue you," grinned Ray, throwing an arm around Rex's shoulders. "Who was that?"

"One of the locals," replied Rex, wincing as Ray unwittingly squeezed a bruised arm. "He was there to rescue the boy. Helped me rescue Amaya and all the rest. Said his name was Guillaume."

"Huh, good for him," smiled Ray, releasing Rex and turning to hug Amaya. He stopped short at the look she gave him. "How, er, how did he react to you two having superpowers?"

"Do you think us fools, Doctor?" Amaya glared, folding her arms. "He helped free me, Doctor Tyler and I retrieved our belongings, and we said we would take care of the guards on deck while he freed the other prisoners below. He saw nothing of our powers. He knows only that we are trained fighters."

"Some trained fighters!" Jax cut in, looking around him with a decidedly impressed air. "There's at least twenty guys here and that's just the ones I can see! He must think you guys were trained ninjas or somethin'!"

"There are no ninjas in the twelfth century!" Amaya frowned, letting her arms fall. "Certainly not here."

"Wouldn't it be cool though, if there were," grinned Ray.

The other three ignored this utterly.

"We should be getting back," muttered Rex, turning away from the galley.

"Rip and Sara are chasing up a few leads they found," said Jax, nodding and taking the lantern from Ray's unresisting hand. "They said to meet them in the marketplace. This way."

Ray was the last to turn and follow the bobbing light in the darkness. A muttered comment drifted back to the unconscious slavers on and around their dromon. "Well, I think it would be cool."

XXXX

"How precisely do you plan to explain _this_ to any random inhabitant that happens to be passing?" Rip grumbled, gesturing at his still damp attire and hair.

"Why do you think I told Ray and Jax to meet us at the corner of the square between the bar and the water," replied Sara, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous picture he made.

The scowl on his face deepened and he threw himself down, his back to the wall. "At least we shouldn't have long to wait."

The word that Rex and Amaya had been safely returned had come through on the comms somewhere round about the middle of Sara and Rip being marched off Clemonds' ship by the disturbingly eager Jean. The big man had almost been itching to use his sword on them. It was a good sword too. Perfectly balanced, Sara thought. She wondered if he had named it. He seemed that kind of guy. She put her back to the wall and slid down to sit close by Rip. Not too close. Not touching. If anything had made it clear to her that that might be a bad idea, their route into Mallory's presence had. Ignoring the fact that he had barely looked in her direction and never once met her eyes, he had also avoided making any kind of contact with her to the point that he would rather struggle up the steering oar by himself than take her hand and let her help him. It irritated her. More than it probably ought.

An uncomfortable silence descended between them as it never had before. By the time the rest of the team showed up, she was done counting ships and ready to start counting stars. At the first sight of Jax and his lantern, she jumped to her feet and headed over.

"Everyone safe?" Sara checked. "No timeline altering butterflies to worry about?"

"There are a few more slaves free than there were this morning, and their captors have missed both the tide and their prime cargo," replied Amaya, ice forming in her words. "Nothing huge."

"One of those slaves you freed _might_ have been important to the timeline," Sara shot back, meeting the other woman glare for glare. "Hardly nothing!"

"Gideon! Have we changed anything?" Rip asked the air with a sigh, dragging himself to his feet behind Sara.

"Without the Oculus, I cannot be certain, Captain," replied the AI through the comms. "I have not, however, discovered any alterations of particular importance so far."

Amaya raised an eyebrow at Sara.

"You were lucky," said Sara, smiling all too sweetly.

"I will not leave people to suffer and die if I can in any way alleviate that suffering," replied Amaya, with absolutely no smile gracing her features whatsoever.

"One day you might have to," Sara shot back.

"We can discuss this back on the Waverider," cut in Rip, walking past the ladies to take the lantern from Jax's outstretched hand and lead the way back to the ship. "Preferably not tonight!"

XXXX

The Waverider flew through the timestream, carrying its crew to their next adventure the long way round. The day in Acre had been drawing towards midnight by the time they were back on board and fully debriefed. Rip had ordered them all off to get some much needed rest. Orders or no orders, however, rest was eluding Sara. Rip had been cold and offhanded with her ever since the morning after _that_ mistake, but today he had been downright weird. Even when they were on a mission together, just the two of them. Even when they were yelling at each other loud enough to give Gideon a headache!

It had been seven days since their kiss. A full _week_! And yes, okay: maybe they had both agreed the next morning, when clearer, less intoxicated heads prevailed, that it had been a mistake. And maybe it had. And that was fine. But then if they had both agreed that, were both okay with that, why was he still avoiding her gaze. Once upon a time, before they even began to become friends, he had met her stare for stare, unflinching and unafraid, even when she held a knife to his throat. Maybe she should try that now. Anything to get him to look at her. It was getting ridiculous. Worse: it was becoming noticeable! Sure, maybe Mick and one or two of the others who knew them better might have spotted something sooner, but after today's incident there could be no way the rest of the team hadn't! Sara rolled her eyes and threw off her blanket. There was no way she could sleep now. Not like this.

"Gideon, is he awake?" Sara sighed at the ceiling.

"To whom are you referring, Miss Lance?" Gideon primly responded.

Sara glared upwards. She folded her arms.

"Captain Hunter is in his office," admitted the AI. "I do not believe he wishes to be disturbed."

"Then he should stash his liquor in his bunk and drink it there like everyone else," retorted the ex-assassin, marching out into the corridor.

Rip was indeed in his office, whisky tumbler in hand, seated in the old-fashioned desk chair. He did not look up as Sara approached. On the contrary: he turned the chair ever so slightly away from her, resting the glass on his temple as he moved.

"Unless it's life or death, Sara, can this _please_ wait until the morning?"

Rip's voice sounded thick with bitter emotions. She ignored it.

"We need to talk," announced Sara, striding across the office floor and rounding the desk. He turned the chair further away from her, lowering the whisky glass so he could stare into its depths.

She removed the glass, set it on the desk and turned the chair to face her. Trapped, with one of Sara's hands on either arm of his chair, he had nowhere left to hide. Still he kept his chin down.

"Look at me, Rip," she commanded. "You haven't come near me in days. You can barely stand to be in the same room as me. When you are you can't even bring yourself to glance in my direction. I apologised once. I won't do it again. But we need to get back to where we were before if this team is going to be its best. _I_ need us to get back to where we were before! I need you to look at me! Please!"

"I just..." Rip's voice shook.

For a moment, Sara felt guilty. She shouldn't be pushing him like this. But sometimes he needed pushing.

"I need time," he began again, his eyes still downcast. "I know I'm being selfish, and unreasonable, but you must understand something of what I'm feeling right now. I know what he meant to you. I know what your sister meant to you. To let someone in, just for that moment. To stop feeling that pain, even just for that short while. It feels like a betrayal. Now take whatever guilt you feel and add a broken vow on top. Another one, anyway."

Sara's arms relaxed. That, at least, was an explanation she could understand. "You haven't broken any vows, Rip," she said softly, resting her forehead on his. "I know you're gonna hate me for saying this, but you're not a husband any more. You're a widower. You have to let her go. She wouldn't want you tearing yourself apart for one moment of weakness."

"I always thought I'd die first," he murmured, not looking up, but not breaking the contact. "In this line of work it's an occupational hazard. When Miranda and I said our vows, I never thought I'd be the one left behind. I never thought I'd have to stop thinking of myself as her husband. I never thought I'd forget so easily."

"Look at me," Sara pleaded. "It was one kiss, Rip. What's one kiss between friends? It doesn't mean you forgot Miranda, or your marriage. It doesn't belittle anything about her memory or the love you shared. All it means is that there is a huge gaping hole in your heart right now, and maybe you are ready to let it start to heal."

"I know I'm ready," he murmured, his eyes closing. "I don't think I could possibly feel this guilty if I didn't know I was already able to say goodbye."

"Look at me," she sighed, "please, Rip."

"I... can't," he stammered. "Please, Sara, I don't trust myself right now."

She blinked. Had she heard him right? She had apologised for kissing him when she had seen how awkward he was around her the next morning. She regretted making him feel that way. She hadn't regretted the kiss. Had he? She had been the first to say it was a mistake. He had simply followed her lead. She looked down at the soft, sandy lashes hiding his expression from her. Hiding his eyes. Eyes that could communicate volumes in one look. What would they say now?

"I trust you," she breathed.

"You shouldn't," he murmured.

"I know."

His eyes flicked up at that. The sudden connection made her breath hitch. She held his gaze, his eyes boring into her soul. The dull light of the office darkened those ever-changing green irises. Was that all? Was that the only reason? Could he see in her eyes what she thought she saw in his? His gaze drifted to her lips and she let hers do likewise. By the time she returned to his eyes, he was watching her again, a question hanging in the sliver of air between them. Perhaps something in her gaze answered it, perhaps he didn't wait to find out. This time it was his hand tangling with her hair to bring her mouth down that last inch to meet his.

Their first kiss had been hurried, thoughtless, needful. This kiss was slow. Deliberate. Sensual. The fire was still there, and it burned in a way that left her breathless when they parted. She leant back on the desk, her knees more than a little weak.

"My turn to apologise, I assume," murmured Rip. He rose and paced back and forth across the floor, both hands in his hair, fingers interlaced behind his head, hiding his expression from her. Sara had barely felt her heart rate slow to a steady rhythm again when he turned on one heel to face her, hands slipping down to join each other again, palms together in entreaty. This time his eyes met hers without flinching once more. "Tell me you felt nothing there, Sara. Tell me now that what just happened was a mistake. A drunken mistake, just like before. As far as possible, I _swear_ I will never speak of this again. Just don't expect me to be able to get back to 'normal', whatever that may be on this ship, in a few days. I can't do that, Sara. Not yet." He closed the gap between them, his clasped hands parting to hover fleetingly over her upper arms like moths around a candle flame before he turned away again, wrenching his eyes from her to focus them on the safety of the floor. His hands alighted on his hips, fingers digging in in an effort to keep them there, and his eyes closed. There was no way out now. No way back. It was all or nothing. "Sara, you've started something in me that I have only the barest breath of control over. Every time I look at you... I don't _know_ what this is. Some invented infatuation to try and distract me from the utter maelstrom of pain that threatens, every day, to drag me under with it? Perhaps. A physical need, an appetite, if you will, that maybe it's _my turn_ to be unable to control? Possibly. All I know is the closer you are to me right now, the closer I need you. Sara, I _need_ you! You're like a star, dragging me in by your gravity to be consumed by your fire. I'm not saying it's love. It can't... _I can't_ be in love right now. I don't know if I ever will. Again. And whatever it is, Sara, I don't know how much longer it will last. Maybe a day. A week. A month. I don't know. I just know how I feel right now. I don't dare look any further ahead than that. Not at the moment, Sara. I can't."

She let her eyes range over the dishevelled mess that was Rip Hunter. He was always a mess when she saw him like this. Vulnerable. She wondered how many others he let see him like this. How many others he let get this close. She wanted to reach out and hold him. To tell him there was light in the darkness. To tell him he could make it through. They could make it through. Both of them. And she needed him to do the same for her. Perhaps that was what they had been doing, every night, sitting talking and drinking, and sometimes just drinking. Perhaps that was what they had been doing every time they lost themselves in each other. In the arguments and the training and the dancing. And the kissing. Perhaps this aching need in her heart had been begun a long time before she had ever acted on it. A tiny whisper that was growing steadily to a scream.

"Just 'good friends', then," she decided, pushing herself up off the desk and walking over to him. "We're friends, as far as everyone else is concerned. Let's keep it that way. As far as we're concerned, well," she let her hands slide around his waist and up to his chest, resting her cheek against his back, "if this friendship occasionally gets a little closer than most, I'm okay with that. It's not love, it's just... comfort. A sticking plaster that stops us hurting for a little while. No ties. No promises. No expectations. We take things one day at a time..."

Rip let his fingertips dare to trace their way up her arms to her hands, raising one to his lips and pressing them to it in a gentle kiss. "See where we end up," he finished, his features melting into a slow smile.


	35. A Time to Wake Up

It was the middle of the night.

Granted, in space, it is almost always the middle of the night, and in the time stream even time itself is an illusion, but as far as the clocks and lights aboard the Waverider were concerned, the middle of the night was exactly what it was. Especially according to its occupants.

Well, most of its occupants.

Ray was in the kitchen when it happened. He had retrieved the bread and some cheese, and a rather interesting lime chutney Sara had picked up last time they were in India, and was just reaching up into the depths of one of the upper cupboards to carefully, carefully, ease out a plate without making any noise. The plate was almost there. It hung by a curving edge, clinging to its companions like a house on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Just a little more and he'd have it free.

Something hard and invisible cannoned into the inventor.

The plates went flying.

XXXX

Mick sat up in bed so suddenly his head collided with the overhang of the sleeping alcove. He swore quietly and shook away the stars that swam before him. Something had woken him. What? Was Haircut clattering about in the kitchen again? He thought he'd made his feelings about that pretty damn clear last time. It would be easy to soundproof his room, the nerd had argued. Plenty of the other crew members did so. That was their outlook, he'd replied. A crook likes to know who's sneaking up on him during the night. He threw himself out of bed with a growl and dragged on his boots. If that idiot had screwed up his kitchen again...

XXXX

Sara was not asleep. Sleep eluded her now just as much as it had at the start of the night. The difference now was why. She had started something. _They_ had started something. It wasn't a conventional relationship, sure, but she wasn't exactly queen of convention, was she. The sound of falling crockery cut the silence. Sara froze. She listened to the sounds that followed, what there was of them. If they were under attack it was by the multiverse's most inept ninja. She sighed. It was probably Ray. Again. She rolled her eyes and swung out of bed, padding across to the door. If Ray was the cause, she had better get to the kitchen before Mick. Somebody would have to play peacemaker.

She passed her hand over the door lock. A puff of air greeted her as it slid open. She stepped out into the corridor.

An invisible force struck her and threw her backwards, landing on her bed with a thud that made the screen behind her fritz. She shook her head and peered at the open doorway. A blur, crackling with bright, yellow lightning, filled the space outside. Sara let her head fall back and her shoulders sag. Sometimes the multiverse had truly terrific timing!

"Gideon?" Sara called upwards, raising her voice over the sound of the billowing wind beyond. "Wake the crew. Tell them our guest is up and running, and not entirely sure where she's going."

XXXX

A month had passed since his little excursion to Acre. The Easter feast had been well provided for. The whole of Temple Mount and its surroundings had rung to the sounds of the kitchens and wallowed in the mouth-watering aromas winding their way from their windows from Palm Sunday onward. Good Friday had not been fun for Leonard. He could not imagine the kitchen staff had it any easier, so close to temptation.

The feast itself had been an interesting one. For once, the monks of Temple Mount had opened their doors, welcoming in all and sundry. The tinker, the tailor. The soldier, the sailor. The rich man, the poor man. The beggar man. And Leonard. All had access to parts of the temple even he had never been allowed in before. Mostly, they were parts that simply provided a large area where the monks set up their trestle tables and great cauldrons, doling out soup and bread, roast meats and vegetables, pies and preserves, all with the military precision and organisation of the knights they were famed for.

Of course, the most interesting thing about the feast from Leonard's viewpoint was the company. Gone were the days of eating with the other secular workers housed and employed by the Templars. When Leonard, or Guillaume, sat down to his Easter meal it was in the company of two new co-conspirators, and the conversation was about riddles and kings.

He had half expected it. There was nothing he could have done. By the time Brother Odo led Guillaume and his men home from their trip to the port of Acre - their carts laden with dried and preserved food, fresh meat for the feast making its own way behind them, tethered by ropes to the cart - the boy Astralabe had made his own inventory of the cellars, and had discovered Leonard's excavations. He had no choice: he had to make some kind of explanation for the great hole in the floor of Odo's cellar. Leonard decided the truth would be best. At least as much of it as could be told as Guillaume. If Odo was a brother monk of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon, he was at least one of the good ones. The way he had dealt with the boy they had rescued in Acre, and his brother, stood testimony to that. In quiet conferences he had divulged the secret of the missing Fulcher, and the theories that followed. He explained his reasoning as far as he could without admitting to somehow miraculously being able to read ancient Egyptian hieratic. He showed them the door, and the ring, and together they bent their unique minds to the riddle inscribed there. They discussed it and thought it over right up to and through the Easter feast, and half way on to Pentecost. Then, one night, as Guillaume rested after a long day of work, Leonard lay turning over the ring in his hands. The dying light of the day caught the scratches on the inner surface again. Something about them niggled in his memory. He turned the ring this way and that, frowning at the odd, straight edged cuts. It was almost like they had been made deliberately.

He turned the ring towards him once more, staring down at the four gems, two on either side of the carved jade tablet, and the bimetallic band they were attached to. He frowned. Curiosity played a melody in his mind, teasing and tempting him to dare. Magic isn't real, his logical thief brain told him. Tell that to Meryatum, his memory reminded him, if he lives. Lived. Leonard's frown deepened. Would he ever find out what had happened to his friend? Perhaps, if he made it back to his own time. Would Kendra remember? Would she remember him? Would she even still be there? He had played his part as best he could. He had kept her alive and safe. As safe as anyone could have, in the circumstances. He dreaded returning to the future to find his interference had wiped her from existence. If it had, though, would the paradox not have wiped him out too? Was he immune to all these changes to history he must be effecting? He was holding on to himself this time. It helped having Antoine to confide in. Someone else who knew who he truly was, and believed him, at least to his face, made it easier for him to remember himself. To hold on to himself. But it was barely five months since his arrival. He was barely halfway through his time here. How much longer could he hold on?

He took a breath and pressed his thumbs to the outermost edges of the first and last gems, increasing the pressure until he felt the metal loops give. Slowly at first, then with a snap like the spring of a mousetrap, the stones moved and the two halves of the ring turned. Leonard turned the inner arc of the metal to the fading light once more. His hunch had been right: the scratches lined up.

XXXX

The search of the ship took longer than expected. The blurring form of the speedster seemed to be everywhere at once. Working out which bit of the blur was her proved to be the problem. Jax was down in the engine room, making sure nothing damaged his precious beauties. Suddenly he found he was flat on his back, wide, startled eyes peering down at him from barely an arm's length away.

"Woah!" Jax breathed as the face flashed away again. "Girl, you are beautiful!"

XXXX

Rip Hunter turned in his sleep. It was a sleep so deep the clatter and cacophony of the other goings on outside his door could not wake him. Neither could Gideon. She had tried.

When her first attempt to wake the captain had failed, Gideon had reported it to Sara, as second in command, and informed her that the captain was currently in the rapid eye movement stage of sleep and dreaming. The artificial consciousness had offered to try again, but those already awake had shrugged it off and told her to let him sleep. Sara had pointed out there was no need for all of them to have their rest disturbed. Thus it was that the only two crew members not roused from slumber or dragged from whatever else occupied them were the captain and the professor, whose room was soundproofed against the snoring, random rages and general crashing about of his neighbour: Mick.

XXXX

Amaya stalked the upper level of the ship, padding like the lioness whose spirit she was invoking. Her feline-enhanced hearing picked up the sound of muffled cries and mutterings from the captain's room. She picked her hiding place with a sneer. This was not the assassin's ship. The captain should have been made aware of the situation. Even now, she could hear that the dreams that plagued him were not peaceful. He would not resent being woken from them. He might resent being left out of a moment like this.

A blur brushed past her, the rushing air of its passage blowing her hair around her face, and disappeared down a set of stairs. She had been too slow. She had let her dissatisfaction distract her. Perhaps if she had spoken up when the computer asked the assassin for orders, she would not have been standing here silently questioning them instead, and missing the one thing she was supposed to be listening for.

XXXX

Down on the middle deck, where the main corridor curved round to the medical bay and a small side passage led off to some store rooms, Rex waited, hidden in the shadows. The blur was circling the level again, maybe looking for a way out, or an escape pod or something. He closed his eyes and listened, monitoring the Doppler pattern of the air. He bided his time, waiting until he was sure he had his timing perfectly correct. Then he jumped.

Spinning out into the corridor, an arm outstretched, Rex grabbed hold of the panicking speedster and wrapped his arms around her. It's hard to run when someone is hugging the fear out of you. Finally, when the girl's hammering heartbeat slowed to something he was at least able to count, he let his hold on her loosen, slightly. Still trembling, she looked up into the soft, steady gaze of her captor.

Rex waited until he had her full attention. "You're safe here, Jesse Quick."


	36. A Time to Trust

Jesse sat in the peaceful sterility of the medical bay, wary eyes watching the man who had introduced himself to her as Rex Tyler, and her doctor. He was being very doctory, she thought, as she studied his serious face. He was watching the computer screen behind her. Her vitals, he had said. He certainly seemed intrigued by them for now.

She cast her eyes over the others assembled in the room: two women and three men, none of whom seemed happy to see her and most of whom looked actually quite scary. Especially the big guy glaring at the nerd. The blonde woman walked towards the bed. Jesse's attention was immediately riveted on her.

"Who are you?" Jesse blurted. "Where am I?"

"You're safe," the blonde repeated. "I'm Sara. You've met Rex. These are Mick, Ray, Jax and Amaya. You're on board our ship, the Waverider. The captain's name is Rip Hunter. He's asleep, so is Martin. Martin Stein? You might have heard of him? From our mutual friends at Star Labs? He's a metahuman, just like you. He's one half of Firestorm. His other half was once Ronnie Raymond: Caitlin Snow's husband? He died, but Martin survived. Now his other half is Jax there. He knows Barry, Caitlin, Cisco and the others well. Well enough you can ask him some questions about them all if you don't believe me."

"I don't know any Martin Stein, or any Barry, Caitlin or Cisco," replied Jesse, shaking her head but keeping her eyes on Sara. "My father and I run Star Labs, and we run it alone. We have since the particle accelerator exploded and put me in a coma. When I woke up, I had these powers. So far the only other 'metas', as you call them, that we've come across have been trying to kill me. Last thing I remember was training to be fast enough to fly. Everything blurred, then I was standing in the middle of a war zone. I tried to run, but something was wrong. I passed out. I woke up here. Now tell me why I should trust you?"

"How about because we just saved your life?" Jax frowned, walking up to stand by Sara's side. "You were unconscious in a prison cell when we found you. Ray there got you out. Sara too, and Rip. Gideon, our AI, has been keeping you alive until Rex there found a way to wake you up. You want a reason to trust us? How about the way _we've_ trusted _you_? Granted we thought you were the Jesse Wells we knew, from Earth Two, and granted a speedster can get out of most places, but we rescued you from the bad guys when we could have left you behind. We woke you up when we could have left you sleeping. We left you with an open door and the whole of the Waverider to check out when you woke up, when we could have let you come to in a speedster-proof cell, and trust me: I _know_ this ship has one! You want a reason to trust _us_? How about you pick one of those and let us know when you've worked out a reason for us to keep trusting _you_?"

XXXX

Rip Hunter was not used to being the last one awake on board his own ship. He was the captain. He felt certain that meant he was the last to close his eyes at night, and the first to open them in the morning. Not this morning apparently. By the time he stumbled, bleary-eyed and yawning, into the Waverider's kitchen, the round tables of the dining area were fully occupied. The air smelt of cooking. Ye gods: even Mick had woken before him then! A glance around the suddenly silent tables made him frown. Nobody likes it when a room goes quiet on their entrance, except maybe teachers or generals, not that there was much difference sometimes. Something in the silence was niggling at his sleep-fogged, caffeine-deprived brain. He counted the heads again. He frowned. He counted the female heads again. He blinked. Ah.

"Why did nobody wake me?" Rip demanded, in tones that he hoped were commanding and dignified but feared were merely childish and irritable.

"We tried," offered Doctor Palmer with a smile far too bright for this time of the morning. "Well, Gideon tried. After that we thought we might as well just let you sleep."

"If you require breakfast, Captain," broke in Professor Stein, the only other person present still in their night clothes, "I believe there is coffee in the pot, pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs in the oven and bread by the toaster."

Rip wagged a slowly processing finger at the professor, then the coffee pot, then the oven, and turned in the direction of the kitchen cupboards. He paused for a moment, as if the spark of memory had finally caught in his mind, and turned back to the group at large and one person in particular. "Good morning, Miss Wells. Welcome to the team."

XXXX

The script was mostly angular. Leonard didn't recognise it, but that didn't mean someone else around here wouldn't. He had three possible sources of information now: Brother Antoine, Brother Odo and the boy, Astralabe. How much use a kid would be in translating something older than the ground he was standing on was debatable, but Leonard had already learnt not to dismiss him out of hand. That kid had brains coming out of his ears! Odo had described the boy's intelligence as 'unsurprising', but he hadn't said why.

The morning's work was done, and Leonard was free to do as he wished. Free to be Leonard again, instead of Guillaume. At least while he was alone or with Brother Antoine. He had considered telling the others he worked with that he had remembered his name - his true name - and to call him by it, but his gut rebelled at the idea of giving away any more of himself than was absolutely necessary. He tried Odo and the boy first. They were the closest to hand. Odo shook his head, frowning down at the scratches in the mirrored candlelight of the cellar.

"It seems to me that I have seen this somewhere, but I cannot recall where," announced the monk, the rumble of his low tones fading into the darkness of the cellar tunnels and halls. He passed the ring to the child.

"I remember these also," piped Astralabe. "They look like writing I saw in an old carving once. It showed King Solomon on his throne, welcoming the Queen of Sheba. The writing like this was on her side of the carving. The writing on his was in Hebrew."

"Where is this carving?" Guillaume asked, focusing a new interest on the boy. "It may help us translate the ring."

"Gone," replied the child, shaking his curly head. "I found it once, not long after I first arrived here. I was exploring. The knights found me: Godfrey and Archambaud. They carried me back to the dormitory. I was told to stay there. The next day I was set to work here, with Brother Odo. I went back once, two moons later, but the carving was gone."

"A pity," murmured Odo, his features deep in thought. "No doubt the passage of the years will have all but erased it from your young mind."

The boy handed the ring back to Guillaume and shook his head. "No, I remember it quite well."

The two older men watched as the child took a stick and began to draw in the compacted dust floor of the cellar. The figures lacked a craftsman's skill, but the lettering on either side was recognisable enough to suppose it was accurate. Leonard lifted a candle from its sconce and held the flame closer to the earthen floor. Behind him, Odo's hurrying footsteps retreated and advanced, bearing a lantern and beaten metal mirror.

"I knew the boy's memory was remarkable," the monk breathed, crouching over the drawing, "but this is beyond anything I have yet seen from him!"

"He has perfect recall," murmured Guillaume, surveying the writing on either side and letting the Hebrew settle into his brain for translation. "The mind is a strange and wonderful thing. It's capabilities can surprise even the wisest of us."

"I can read the Hebrew," mused Odo, "but the other eludes me."

"I think it says the same as the Hebrew side," commented Astralabe, sitting back and admiring his handiwork with a serious and pensive demeanour. "It seems to have the same sort of length, and the same number of words. It says 'Bilqis, Queen of Sheba, kneels before Solomon, King of Israel."

"Surely the words will differ in their tongue as they do in their script," frowned Guillaume, his hand hovering over the delicate scratches.

"Perhaps that does not matter," said Odo, after some consideration. "There are four names in the inscription: the two lands and their rulers. Those may not change with the tongue. Not when their first knowledge of the other comes from this very meeting."

Guillaume looked from one side of the drawing to the other. In his mind, the Hebrew letters began to shift and take on meaning. As his gaze turned to the letters of Sheba, so did they.

XXXX

"Prepare to time jump in five minutes," announced Gideon's ever-cheerful tones.

"What?" Ray frowned up at the ceiling. "Since when?"

"And when to?" Sara added, pushing back her chair and striding out of the kitchen and dining area. The others were quick to follow her example.

A blur buzzed up to Sara's side. "What's going on? Where are we going?"

Sara, who was mentally congratulating herself on not jumping out of her skin at the sudden arrival of the speedster, glanced over at the girl. "This is a time ship. It travels through space, as it's doing now, and time, as it's preparing to do in five minutes."

"Four minutes, twenty-one seconds and counting," interrupted Gideon helpfully.

"Exactly," Sara muttered, "and usually our captain gives us a little bit more warning than that so I'm on my way to the bridge to find out what's going on. That also happens to be where the safest seating is."

"The rest of us are just tagging along for the fireworks," grinned Mick, easily keeping pace with Sara on her other side.

"Mick!" Sara warned.

"Not like there's any kind of television to watch instead," shrugged the unrepentant arsonist.

The bridge doors opened before the delegation. Rip was leaning over one of Gideon's screens with his back to them. He didn't look up as they arrived, but merely waved them to the surrounding seating. "I believe we should still all have a chair available now that Miss Wells has regained consciousness, however I left a bucket by the one on the far left. If she would be so good as to take that one, I would be much obliged."

"What's going on Rip?" Sara demanded, descending on the captain and ignoring Mick's choice of seat-with-the-best-view opposite her. "What's so urgent you couldn't take the time to tell us first?"

"Well if we're on the topic of not telling people things..."

"Oh get over it!" Sara hissed. "So we let you sleep. You needed it."

"Gideon spotted a flaw pop up in the timestream," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Since we were all up and about anyway, I thought we might as well make a start on fixing it."

"What kind of flaw?" Sara pressed. "When are we headed for?"

Rip tapped a couple of buttons on the monitor and waved a hand at the information that appeared. He swung round to the rest of the now seated crew and headed for his own chair. "Ten sixty six, ladies and gentlemen, where Harold Godwinson is just about to win the battle of Hastings."

"So a tiny island exchanges one tiny king for another a thousand years ago," rumbled Mick. "How bad can it be?"

"That tiny island would one day become the greatest naval power on the planet," snapped Rip, tapping co-ordinates without looking up. "Apparently one of the dominoes in that particular chain of events involves the Norman conquest actually happening, instead of William the Conqueror becoming William the Conquered, and Harold Godwinson ruling over the land with no thought for anyone's happiness or welfare but his own. Instead of dying at Hastings as he should, he now apparently becomes Harold Hard-hand; rules over England such as it was for the rest of his natural life; taxes the kingdom into abject poverty; terrorises nobleman and commoner alike; takes whatever goods, lands or women he pleases; kills anyone who might even be thinking bad thoughts about him, including two of his own sons; and finally passes the dying remains of his kingdom on to a son who is even worse than he was!"

"I thought Harold Godwinson was voted into power by some kind of council," said Martin, his brow creasing. "Didn't they know what kind of a man he was?"

"Probably," muttered Rip, his eyes glancing up to take in the team, all present and correct. They glanced over Sara, settling herself in the last chair, and looked back to the controls. "They weren't exactly spoiled for choice. A weak boy barely into his teens who would have been easily controlled by them, but just as easily beaten by the foreign forces threatening either end of the country; an Anglo-Saxon earl that had kept himself and his _mistress_ close to the throne and seemed easy enough to manipulate; or an illegitimate Norman whom the term Machiavellian wouldn't really begin to describe! Of course it is entirely possible he only turned quite so bad once the power really went to his head."

"Still, one can hardly see how a council of so called wise men..." Martin began.

"Power corrupts," suggested Ray, "and absolute power corrupts absolutely. If I was given the power to choose the next ruler, and my choices were between some evil, megalomaniac dictator type who looks like some kind of power-hungry, amoral idiot, a politician-type I could never be sure I trusted, and the guy I know is gonna lose, and I wanted to keep my power or better it, I guess I'd pick the one I thought I could control and who would hold on to that power for me."

"Lucky you ain't in the business of choosing world leaders then, ain't it, Haircut," rumbled Mick.

"Well, I am," shrugged Ray. "Of course I am. We all are, at least when we're around for the elections. We just all understand our responsibility to vote for the candidate that would be best for the country as a whole, not just best for ourselves."

Mick growled a wordless response.

"Well, some of us do," amended Ray, shrugging his eyebrows.

The ship jumped.

XXXX

Sara paused at the edge of the clear wall. She could see him, sitting there in his favourite chair, his back to her. He had just picked up his glass, whisky already poured. That was unusual. Nowadays he tended to wait on her before the drinking started. It had been a long time since she had seen him drink alone, at least while they had been on speaking terms. When they had been fighting, or avoiding each other, she had no idea what he did. Neither situation, however, applied here. They were back on friendly terms again. More than friendly. And he had surely been expecting her. But then, something had been off all day, whether he would admit it or not, and it was more than just peevishness at being left out of catching Jesse or frustration at the team's efforts to keep history on an even keel. They even hadn't started a single bar fight this time!

Picking her way around the curve of the wall and up the stairs, Sara crept up behind Rip and slipped her hands over his eyes. He flinched at the sudden, unexpected contact, then relaxed. She didn't even need to say 'guess who'.

"I feel I should be used to assassins sneaking up on me by now," Rip muttered, taking one of Sara's hands in his own and brushing his lips over her knuckles. "Although I think you're the only one not _actually_ trying to kill me. Most of the rest would have gone for the throat, not the eyes."

Sara let her arms slide down around his shoulders and dropped a soft kiss on his neck. "I could do that too, if you like."

He stilled her with another kiss, this time to the back of her hand, drawing her around the chair to face him. "Not right now, if you don't mind."

One hand still tangled with his, Sara stepped over his outstretched legs and leant back against the arm of the chair. She ran her free hand through his already messed up hair. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

"It's nothing, don't worry about me," he murmured, trailing his free hand up and down her back.

"You started without me," she replied, inclining her head to the glass on the desk. "It's not nothing."

Rip let his hand flatten on her back and guide her off the arm of the chair and into his lap. Her free arm wrapped itself around his shoulders and she pressed her lips to his temple.

"Talk to me," Sara murmured into his ear, letting the arm around her back pull her closer.

"It doesn't feel quite right," he murmured back, releasing her hand and tracing his fingers up her arm. "Talking to one's mistress about missing one's wife."

"So I'm your 'mistress' now, am I?" Sara smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. "I wondered why that word seemed to bother you so much this morning. When did that happen? I thought we agreed on 'close friends'?"

"Very close!" Rip half laughed. "Especially right now!"

"Hmm," she melted into him, her legs curling under his, one arm encircling his shoulders, the other resting on his chest, her head nestled into the side of his neck. "I can live with that."

"Comfortable, are we?" Rip asked dryly, tracing soft, flowing lines on the back of Sara's shoulders.

"You started it," she smiled as his hand moved up into her hair, trailing through the tangled tresses. "And yes, since you ask, I am. So are you going to tell me what's been eating you all day? Or are we just gonna sit here all night until we fall asleep? Because if you keep doing that, that's exactly what's gonna happen."

"It really is nothing," he sighed, resting his head on hers. "The tiniest, most utterly insubstantial thing. I had a dream last night, it was more like a memory really, about Miranda. I don't know what put it into my head. I haven't been able to shake it all day. It was our anniversary. I'd stolen her away on the Waverider. Taken her to see a play in the time and place where I first lived. Where I was born. I remember taking her there. I remember arriving. I remember how fetching she looked in the dress Gideon made for her. I even remember handing over our money at the theatre door. The play was Romeo and Juliet. Then the memory fades. I get flashes. Glimpses, really. Of her, of course. Nothing about the play. No player could portray a Juliet more beautiful than mine. Certainly not in that era. Then nothing. I don't recall leaving the theatre. I have no memory at all of our journey back to the Waverider, or, indeed, our own time. It's odd. It feels like I'm losing her all over again."

"That's not nothing," breathed Sara. "Sometimes, when I think about Laurel, I find myself having to _try_ to remember things. Like how her voice changed when she was angry or happy or sad, or how she laughed. I never thought I'd have to make an effort to remember my sister's laugh! I heard it so often growing up. How can the memory of it fade so quickly?"

"Memories are tricky things," he murmured peacefully. "They are the mirages of the mind, showing us the things we long for most only to snatch them away again before we reach them."

"Now who's 'quite the poet'?" Sara smiled, a chuckle of amusement barely hidden in her voice. "How many of those whiskies had you had before I turned up?"

"I may have been on my second," he admitted, his lip curling and his arms tightening momentarily around her. He turned his head and kissed hers.

Sara flattened her hand against his chest, lifted her head from its resting place and pressed her lips gently to his. "Our memories might fade over time, but we're never gonna forget them. No matter what, they'll always be a part of us."

"I know," breathed Rip, resting his forehead on hers, their eyes still closed. "I know. I just... I wish they didn't. I wish I could take those memories and store them in some kind of indestructible computer that would let me take them out and replay them as often as I wanted, whenever I wanted, forever, and store them away when I needed to."

"That would be nice," agreed Sara, content to stay exactly where she was, building up a memory of her own. "But maybe the thing that makes memories so important, so precious, is their ability to fade. They all have a time limit. Some longer than others, but they all do. And that's just something we have to accept."

They sat there in companionable silence, the universe drifting by around them as the night wore on. Rip gave an odd chuckle and Sara's brows came together in puzzlement. "What?

"I was just thinking," he smiled, running his hand through her hair. "What on earth would the rest of the team think if they walked in and saw us like this?"

"We should probably start locking doors," laughed Sara. "Just in case we start getting, er, 'close'."

"We?" Rip grinned. "You started it, Miss Lance. This evening and the first. In fact, come to think of it, _you_ were the one invading _my_ personal space the second time we kissed too. You can't resist me, it appears."

"Ohh, no," Sara smiled back. "I think you'll find _you're_ the one starting things here, _Captain_. _You_ asked _me_ to dance, _and_ picked the music. _You_ kissed _me_ the second time, and I wasn't that much more in your personal space than usual, so you don't get to use that excuse. And as for tonight, sneaking up on someone hardly counts. I didn't end up right here on my own, you know."

"Really? Fancy a wager?" Rip suggested, trailing his fingertips down her spine. "As of tomorrow morning, no hands. Let's see who can go the longest without reaching out for the other. I believe I'm the record holder so far. You came tracking me down last time, not vice versa."

"But I wasn't the first to reach out to the other then," she reminded him, "and if you think that means I'll give in now, Rip Hunter, you are sorely mistaken! You're on. Starting tomorrow morning. From when we get up in the morning until the first of us cracks. What does the winner get?"

"Well," Rip considered, "betting with money is rather pointless on a ship that can make it, so how about chores? Loser does the winner's chores for a week."

"Deal," she replied, kissing him and pulling away. "We really do need to start locking doors, though. What if someone walked in?"

"Would it be so bad?" Rip frowned. "They're bound to spot the change in us eventually, even if we are 'just good friends' in front of them."

"Remind me what Mick said to you after we got back here with Rex?" Sara raised an eyebrow.

Rip rolled his eyes. "He said something about not taking advantage of you. I believe he got a little too involved with his role as your big brother."

"Gideon?" Sara glanced up.

"My records show that Mister Rory invited Captain Hunter to 'keep his hands off' you," responded the AI, "and threatened to kill Captain Hunter if he ever so much as laid a finger on you again"

"Okay, so we hide it from Mister Rory," shrugged Rip, all ten of his fingers currently holding Sara Lance far closer than said Mister Rory would consider healthy... for the Captain. "There's no reason for the rest of them not to know."

"You want to know a reason?" Sara retorted with a short laugh. "Have you even met this crew? How about the more people know, the more likely it is that one of them will let it slip to Mick."

"This is true," he admitted, nodding, "so we're definitely hiding this away. From everyone, but especially from Mick."

"But we're still starting this bet tomorrow, right?"

"Definitely!"


	37. A Time to Laugh

They lasted two days.

Sara heard him approach. She heard him stop at the door. She knew exactly who it was. She knew the sound of everyone's footsteps on this ship. She smirked, never pausing in her movements. Never letting him know she knew he was there. In her mind's eye she saw him standing, leaning against the door frame at that ridiculous angle he seemed to prefer, arms folded. Showing off that ridiculous coat. Well, maybe not _that_ ridiculous. On him, it worked. Not that she would be telling _him_ that any time soon.

Rip leant against the door frame and watched Sara cleaning her knives. Did she know he was here? Probably. His eyes slid up from her hands to the back of her head. He imagined the smirk that sometimes crept over her face when she thought she knew something everyone else didn't. Or just something he didn't. She was usually right. His eyes followed the rolling tangles of her blonde hair, still a mess from the fight. They fell to the laces of her white leather corset top, following the zigzag pattern down to the knot. He wondered idly what kind of knot it was.

"Enjoying the view?" Sara's voice enquired, without any sign of her turning round.

Rip cleared his throat and stood up straight, an automatic hand running through his hair, eyes flitting everywhere but at her. He glanced up and spotted Sara's eyes, reflected in a shining steel blade. She looked round, and the only word he could use to describe her smile then was 'smug'. He sighed, a wry smile playing on his features. She raised an eyebrow, silently repeating her question.

"I'm just here to get your thoughts on our newest recruit," he replied, holding up his hands in surrender and sauntering over to her. "Nothing else."

Sara put the knife she had been cleaning in its holder in the case. She turned to face him. "Nothing else, huh?"

"Not a thing," Rip assured her, leaning on the stack of cases next to her.

Sara felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. There was the coat, just as she'd expected, collar turned up like he thinks he's James Dean. There was the scruffy T-shirt, mostly hidden by the leather jacket. There was the revolver holster on top of it, criss-crossing the leather and settling on his hip.

"Enjoying the view?" Rip murmured, amusement warming every word.

Sara raised languid eyebrows and took her time bring her eyes back up to his face. "Yes, actually, I was," she grinned.

He grinned back. "Can we focus now please?"

"I dunno, I thought I was pretty focussed there," Sara smirked. "You certainly were."

"On the reason I'm here," Rip clarified.

Sara tipped her head and her smirk broadened.

"The real reason," he tried again.

An eyebrow went up.

"The reason I gave everyone else," he resorted to, finally.

Sara laughed and turned to lean back on the crates, her arms folding, keeping her hands tucked away. "She's a speedster," she began, "so she moves fast and she heals fast. She followed orders today, but it was her plan to begin with and she'd already agreed with everything we came up with after that. Plus she has eyes for the tin man, and he was the one at the wheel today. How she'll be following orders when someone else is calling the shots, or when she doesn't agree with something, I can't say. She's been used to working alone, or with her father only, ever since her powers showed up. I get the feeling it might take her some time to blindly trust one of _your_ harebrained schemes."

"So, par for the course then," he quipped, pushing himself up off the crates and sticking his hands in his pockets. "Anything else?"

Sara glanced up at him with a sly smile. "Work related or...?"

He rolled his eyes at her. She grinned. He smiled and headed for the door.

"Do you think we should warn her Rex is an android?" Rip wondered, pausing halfway across the small room. "I mean, I know Rex, this Rex, hasn't found that out yet, but..."

"You saying this because she trusts him over you or because she likes him?" Sara asked, unfolding her arms and releasing her trapped hands. "And when I say 'likes'..."

"You don't mean the way she likes everyone else," he finished, turning to look back at her with a half smile. "More like the way Jax liked Kendra."

She took a few steps forward, her thumbs tucked into the back of her waistband. It brought her most of the way towards him. "Or the way that I like you."

Without thinking, he stepped towards her, closing the distance between them and stopping short just inches away. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then rested his own on the spot. "Or the way I like you," he murmured. "But if I don't get back soon, the rest of the crew is going to start wondering where their captain has disappeared to."

"Let them wonder," Sara breathed, her eyes closing.

"I told them to be ready to jump in five minutes," he sighed, his own eyelids falling. "That was ten minutes ago."

"You shouldn't have spent so long staring," she smirked.

"Mick will come looking," he pointed out.

"Let him," Sara shrugged, shuffling closer.

"Remind me," murmured Rip, his lips brushing over hers, "Who was number one on the list of people we did _not_ want to find out about this?"

"He'll deal," Sara muttered, leaning in to catch his lips.

"He'll kill me," returned Rip, kissing her back, briefly.

"I'll protect you," she grinned, tugging at his lower lip.

"Not the point," he groaned, his hands reaching out and closing around her waist.

"Gideon! Close the door," Sara ordered, her smug smile returning.

"And keep it closed!" Rip added.

"Shall I soundproof the room as well, Captain?" Gideon chimed back cheerfully.

"Probably a good idea," cut in Sara. "And if they ask, just tell them we're arguing."

"I believe the rest of the crew would find that statement convincing," replied the AI.

"Tell me about it!" Rip grinned. He dipped his head and captured her lips again as the doors clicked closed behind them. His hands moved to her hips, sliding round to unhook her thumbs, brushing gently over her wrists and arms and shoulders and coming to rest on either side of her face. He heard her sigh. Felt her sigh. Felt her arms slide around him, under his coat, and pull him closer. They continued, trading kiss for kiss and sigh for sigh, until Gideon informed them that the rest of the crew were getting restless.

"Will I see you tonight?" Sara asked, breathless and eyes closed, still unwilling to relinquish her hold on him.

"Without a shadow of a doubt," Rip gasped back, sliding his hands down her arms and detaching her hands. "I'll go first. What are we saying we were arguing about."

"None of their business," murmured Sara, stifling a whimper as he pressed a kiss to the pulse points on her wrists.

Rip smiled against her smooth skin and kissed her there again. "I'm going to remember that does that to you."

"And I'm gonna have fun finding out how to retaliate," whispered Sara in his ear.

XXXX

The riddle hadn't been difficult to decipher. Not once they had worked out the translation of the text on the inside of the ring. The whole thing, it turned out, was just some giant acrostic, letters lined up to read one thing one way, read the word on the inside of the ring another. A bit more light and a bit less dust and dirt and the fine lines between the letters showed up. All Leonard had to do was press the right chain of letters in the right direction, albeit with rather more force than might have once been intended, and the grinding of ancient gears vibrated through the metal of the hatch. Even still, it had taken all his and Odo's combined strength to open the now unlocked entrance. The tunnel below led down into a darkness that stank with air gone stale over a millennium since and Guillaume, being the least easily missed, had been voted to play canary. They had let down a lantern on a rope first, of course. That had at least given them the idea that they were going to need plenty of rope, and that the air at the bottom of the shaft still seemed breathable. The hatch they had wedged open; the ropes they had secured around the weightiest of the barrels, letting down Guillaume on one and a bag of supplies on the other. Water. Food. A spare lantern and candles. Flint. Knife. Torch ready to be lit. Guillaume had brought his own small pack of tools from his room, adding them unopened to the bag with only the merest questioning glance from Odo. The supplies had hit the ground before Guillaume, but Leonard had been the one to hoist them onto his back. Down here, in the depths and the darkness, with no other mind for company but his own, he could leave his mask behind. Down here, where the cold seeped into his bones, he could let the thief out of his cage.

The first day's work hadn't been too bad. Unlike the one his alter ego had been building, the tunnel he was in had been made to withstand the test of time. Hard stone floored and roofed the tunnel, and shored up its sides as well. Empty, dried up crusts of insects and arachnids crunched under his feet, what little remained of any spider's webs fizzling away to nothing when faced with the flame of Leonard's torch. If the day had been anything, it had been boring. Hours of trudging through darkness, ever descending like Danté in his comedy: through circle after circle. At the allotted hour, the echoing sound of bells reverberated down the tunnel, bouncing from stone wall to stone wall like thunder in the mountains. Leonard had turned and trudged back up the weary way to be hauled up by Odo and take up his mask once more.

They had decided after that to take enough provisions for a much longer journey: one of the benefits of having the cellarer as a co-conspirator.

Guillaume tracked down his high ranking rescuer of half a year since the next Sabbath morning after mass and begged leave to be gone the next few days, perhaps more, as part of a penitent retreat from the world. Christ, he had said, had spent forty days and nights alone in the wilderness. He, of course, had no intention of attempting to emulate such a divine feat, but perhaps a tithe of the time would not be beyond him. He had been given the permission, had even eaten heartily at the midday meal and been seen to take his leave of the temple enclave soon after. He had not been seen to return.

Seen.

Odo had lowered him to the floor of the tunnel, sending down after him this time not one but six sacks. Each held the same provisions. The plan was to drag them along the smooth stone floor together then, when the first bag was exhausted, to leave the second at that point and continue using resources from the third. When that was done, Leonard would leave the fourth at that point. When the fifth was finished, he was to turn and head back. If they had reckoned their time right, each sack would last a day and he would return in time to thank the knight at the next Sunday mass. Leonard had a sneaking suspicion Brother Odo merely wanted to make sure he rested on the Sabbath.

He bent his back to the task nonetheless, letting his mind and memory wander for the first part of the journey at least. Down here, the darkness and monotony helped. His memory flitted from place to place, like a fish in a stream, swimming against the flow. Now he was in Acre, or Jerusalem. Now he was in Egypt, watching a girl fight for her place in history. Now he was in a cold, lonely house, looking down at another girl fighting just to survive. Now he was on a metal ship surrounded by stars, listening to voices argue. Now a prison, standing behind a mad teenager all the other kids seemed terrified of. Now the metal ship again, but this time he was the one fighting, staring down his outstretched arm at a stubborn blonde refusing to leave.

Sara.

The name echoed around his head. It was one of the few he could put faces to. There were other faces and other names, but he hadn't managed to match them all up yet. Already they seemed to be fading from him again. Lisa, Mick: those two he had faces for. Many faces. Years of faces: a lifetime each. Others seemed more of a blur. Barry, for one. Some were little more than an emotion. Lewis. He was sure there was a face hidden in his jumbled recollections somewhere that fitted that name, but he didn't want to see it. Hatred, pure and never simple, burned through him like ice at the thought of that name. Love and hate: the two emotions Brother Antoine had said would draw the greatest responses from him. He knew he loved the others: Lisa, Mick and Sara. All the rest seemed to fill up a sliding scale from something similar to complete indifference. Lewis was the only one he hated.

Leonard shrugged the ropes off his shoulders and lowered himself to the stone floor. There was bread and cheese, fruit and cooked beef awaiting him in the first sack, with more of the same to break his fast in the morning. The bread would be stale after the first day, and dried meat would soon have to replace cooked, but in the chill of the tunnel at least the fruit and cheese would not spoil. Odo had instructed him to eat well when he could as they could not be sure what he would find on his journey, but he had also packed the foods he knew would keep best in the later sacks. Apples featured heavily, as Leonard recalled.

It wasn't his first stop, of course. He had been walking all day and half the night, if his sense of time was right. Throughout that, he had only stopped once to rest and eat, carrying his water-skin tied to his wrist as he walked. It wasn't the most comfortable of walks, the weight of three small sacks of food, water and candles on each shoulder, along with the spare torches he carried in a re-purposed quiver, the lit torch in his hand, the coil of rope, and the gradually emptying water-skin on his wrist, all dragged him down. He would be lighter by two sacks in the morning though. Setting the quiver under his head as a pillow, Leonard propped the burning torch up as Odo had shown him, a safe distance away, and wrapped his cloak around him. The empty sack was large enough to cover his feet and lower legs, but no more, its remaining contents removed to sit awaiting him on top of the diminished pile that would continue with him when he woke. Any warmth was welcome down here, though and he made a mental note to add it to the third sack in the morning.

The cold seeped into his dreams that night and Leonard was back on the metal ship once more, shivering as he watched his breath turn to ice. She was there. Sara. Shivering right along beside him. Her head was on his shoulder, his jacket wrapped around her, as together they swapped stories about life and death, and he asked her what dying had felt like. Was this what she had meant? What she had felt? Her words echoed through his dreams like the bells had through the tunnel.

_"Lonely. Like everyone I loved was a million miles away."_


	38. A Time to Observe

"Captain? I am detecting a signal from the Endeavour. Would you like me to put it through to your office?"

"Thank you, Gideon, just wait a moment, tiny, er, situation here," mumbled Rip, extricating himself from his current situation and moving it to one side. The situation in question ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place, and giggled. Rip pulled a face at her, one eyebrow raised in a decidedly non-verbal reminder about pots and kettles. That only brought on another fit of giggling. He nodded at the floor below the monitor and Sara hopped down from the desk to hide. Only then did he turn and face the screen, and try to ignore the serious and deadly assassin sitting on his floor, trying not to laugh. "Okay, Gideon. Put him through."

"Captain Hunter!" The voice was definitely not masculine.

"Captain Baxter?" Rip frowned, edging a little closer to the screen, his brows knotting. "I thought you were on board the Electra. Is everything okay?"

"Amelia and I had a... a minor disagreement and I, we, thought it best to let the air clear a while," replied the first of Rip's converts. "It appears I am... out of practise sharing command of a vessel."

"Right," mused Rip dubiously. "So now you're sharing command of another vessel?"

"Captain Johnson has offered me the role of first officer whilst work on the vanishing point proceeds. He is busy overseeing the work. He needed someone to help him on the ship."

"Right," Rip repeated, still in the same doubtful tones. "And you're calling us because?"

"We require your assistance retrieving materials for the continuation of building work," she reported, her voice regaining some of its previous iron with the return to business. "An alloy we believe your Doctor Palmer is familiar with."

"Ah, Rip!" Luke called, striding into view behind Eve. He hung over the screen and peered down at Rip. "Looking rather rumpled, little brother. Hope we didn't wake you."

"No, no," Rip shook his head and folded his arms around himself. "Just seeing to, er, checking out, um, dealing with a bit of desk work that's been distracting me."

The snort of suppressed laughter was audible to Rip. He set his jaw and smiled, hoping the sound wouldn't have carried across the communication. The sight of Eve Baxter's puzzled frown told him it had. The sight of Luke Johnson's raised eyebrow told him at least one person on the other end of the call had worked out what it was. He glared at his foster brother. Luke grinned.

"Well, when you've _quite_ finished being _distracted_ ," replied Johnson in gleeful tones, "perhaps you and your... _crew_?... could make your way back here with some of Doctor Palmer's infamous dwarf star alloy. It seems our systems find it difficult enough to analyse and impossible to synthesise, so..."

"What are you planning on using it for?" Rip blinked, ignoring the way his brother's eyes darted around the room behind him, looking for clues.

"We'll send Gideon the specifics," muttered an increasingly side-tracked Luke Johnson. "It's part of the power supply for the new, tamperproof Oculus. Do make sure you bring the _lovely_ Miss Lance. It would be so nice to _see_ her again. Are you quite well?"

The last comment had accompanied a sudden refocusing of Luke's gaze on Rip when the latter seemed to stumble. Rip leant back against the desk, out of reach of Sara's feet. "Yes, yes, fine. Just a little... A cramp in my leg, that's all. I'm fine."

Luke smiled sweetly. "Well, I'm sure Miss Lance will be able to help you with that. She did seem to be so good with her hands. Or feet. See you soon."

The monitor flickered into darkness. Rip sank to the floor and stretched out his legs. They tangled with Sara's. "Two weeks and we're busted already! Thank you, madam! We were nearly through undetected until you decided..."

"Oh, we were not 'undetected', Captain, don't you believe it!" Sara chortled, sliding her bare toes up his calf in an manoeuvre similar to the one she had employed during the transmission. "Baxter might not have spotted it, but Luke? He knew you had somebody here from the outset. He even called _me_ out before I went anywhere near your knee."

Rip caught her ankle and dragged her towards him. "Is that a fact?"

Sara squealed with laughter as she landed on her back, Rip leaning over her. "I thought we had a mission to be getting on with. Don't you want to get the crew together."

"Well," sighed Rip, running his hand up her leg to her waist and leaning down to kiss her. "Luke did say when I was finished being distracted."

"That could take a while," grinned Sara, deciding then and there if his hair wasn't at least twice as messed up as it had been before they were interrupted, she wasn't doing things right.

"It's a time ship," muttered Rip between kisses.

XXXX

Two days in and Leonard came up against the first big change in the architecture that he had seen since entering the tunnels. The ground had levelled off somewhere around about the middle of the day, and the tunnel had stopped spiralling and started going straight. In which direction, he could hardly be certain, but he guessed it was following the line of the Temple Mount, if he wasn't lower than the base of it already. The way travelled in a straight line for hours then, just as Leonard was starting to think it was maybe time for the first of his two small evening meals, it branched. He found himself staring at a wall with two seemingly identical tunnels extending off to his left and his right. Something was written on the wall, but from here he couldn't make out what it said.

"Damn," he swore softly, turning his head from one tunnel to the other. There had to be some kind of clue, he thought: something that would tell whoever came down here in years to come - at least whoever was _supposed_ to come down here - which route to pick. Something deep down in his gut, or maybe crouched like a tiger at the back of his mind, however, was warning him that maybe there might be something for people who were _not_ supposed to be down here too.

Dumping the remaining sacks on the floor, Leonard crouched down and examined the floor of the tunnel with his torch. The warm orange of the faintly rustling flame wasn't the most even of light sources. He propped it up against the wall and retrieved two candles from one of his sacks. With each one lit and carefully placed on either side of the junction, there was just about enough light to get a decent view of the place. Torch back in hand, he checked over the floor again. Nothing. The dust of centuries lay undisturbed.

Still wary of stepping out into the junction, Leonard held the torch out at arms length to read the words on the opposite wall. They were in the same odd script as the cuts on the ring, but whatever miracles gave his mind the power to translate Hebrew, Arabic and all the other forms of writing he had so far come across, once he had learned enough of it, had already got to work on these. Before his eyes the words transformed, becoming recognisable characters first, then translating themselves into his own tongue as he read them.

"The pious man looks to God for guidance," muttered the thief. "Hmm."

He cast his mind back to the now numerous services he had attended. Between the memories of Christian masses, prayers and offices, other memories flashed. Golden memories, of a golden land. Memories of priests, prophets and kings. In all those memories, Christian or not, the worshippers all had one thing in common. He looked up.

The ceiling above him was boringly blank. Tentative in the extreme, Leonard stepped out into the space between the tunnels. No pit opened up beneath him. No spikes fell from above. No whirring blade flashed out to chop his head off. He waited.

Nope.

Nothing.

With a sigh of relief, or perhaps disappointment, Leonard looked between the two tunnels again. This time his eyes were on the ceiling, the torch still held out before him to cast its light upwards. Now he saw the difference. Just slightly, on the edge of his vision. He stepped toward the tunnel in question and looked harder, but the angle was odd and he couldn't quite be certain. Memories flashed through his mind once more. Kneel. When the people looked to their god in supplication, they didn't just look up, they knelt.

He should know.

He dropped to his knees.

The image on the ceiling twisted into focus, like a piece of sidewalk art designed to trick the viewer into almost walking round a painted hole. He blinked. That memory was new. Old and new at the same time, anyway. He would have to try and hold on to it. New memories were resurfacing less and less, and some of the old ones were fading too. Leonard's eyes flitted back to the picture. It was a scene from the Bible. The old testament, of course, right back to the Pentateuch. Shimmering where the gilding outlined the central figure, Leonard saw the image of a golden calf surrounded by upturned faces. Exodus. The Israelites when Moses took too long coming down from the mountain. Their false god.

Leonard rose and turned the other way, kneeling by the edge of the opposite tunnel just to be certain. Another scene tilted into view. Exodus again. The parting of the red sea. When the Israelites had shown their faith and followed the leadership of Moses. This was his way. This was the path he must take.

XXXX

The crew were gathered around the holodesk, looking at a three dimensional projection Gideon had provided for them. It was the schematics for the Oculus power supply.

"I don't know who they've got working on this, but it looks all good to me," observed Doctor Palmer, transferring his gaze between the projection and the screens of circuit diagrams below it.

"I concur, Doctor," nodded Professor Stein, scrolling through lists of calculations at his monitor. "The science appears sound."

"Yeah, maybe, but they're gonna need some kind of major league coolant system in play if they ever want to actually use it," pointed out Jax.

"Dwarf star tech is the cleanest _and_ the coolest in the galaxy!" Ray protested.

"That we know of," added Stein, raising a peremptory hand.

"That we know of," agreed Palmer. 

"It's not the dwarf star tech I'm worried about," said Jax, pointing at the centre of the display. "At least not just that. It's this part here. This is designed to take in and channel all of the wellspring, right? Well, I know I wasn't in there with you guys, but from what I know of time tech and dwarf star tech, and from what Gideon's taught me about the wellspring, if you fire the entirety of the wellspring through there, past the dwarf star alloy, the temporal friction it causes would create a ton of heat energy and the galaxy's weirdest electromagnet."

"Heat?" Mick cut in, his eyes reflecting the projection. "Heat is good. I like heat."

"Not this heat, Mister Rory," murmured Rip, a frown lining his features.

"Translation?" Sara tried, looking from physicist, to engineer, to mechanic, then back to Rip. A frown formed on her own face. She didn't like seeing him so weighted down. Life didn't do 'happily ever afters', but surely they were both due a 'happily for a little while' by now. Not stolen moments hidden from everyone except the computer who, with unerring accuracy, always seemed to pick the worst times to interrupt them, but really happy. Happy deep down. But maybe that wasn't something she could have with someone who saw her as a way to blot out the pain. Someone she saw the same way.

Didn't she?

Ray tried to explain. "Jax is right. Without a coolant system the friction created will build up so much heat energy that even the alloy itself will start to dissociate..."

"Use smaller words, Haircut!" Mick cut in. "Preferably fewer of 'em too!"

"You know the coolant system on your gun, Mister Rory?" Rex tried, picking a subject he knew the arsonist at least cared about.

"Yeah," Mick returned, watching him askance. "What about it?"

"What would happen to your gun without it?"

Mick chortled. "It would go boom!" His eyes widened at the last word, picturing the dancing of the flames, then fascinated imagination darkened to anger. "And I'd burn up another family."

An uneasy silence settled on the group.

"The same would happen here," murmured Rip, his quiet, steady voice drawing the light back in to expel the darkness. "Mister Jackson, if you and Doctor Palmer would work on designing a coolant system for the Oculus, I will let Captain Johnson know of our findings."

"Actually, I could use the Professor's help in working out a way to track down more dwarf star," requested Ray. "It won't matter about a coolant system if we don't have the stuff to make the power supply module in the first place."

"Of course," nodded Rip, "Quite right. Mister Jackson, I will come and help you with the designs as soon as I am finished here."

"I could help," piped up a voice from a chair.

Rip looked round to Jesse. "Miss Wells. Is this not all still a bit new to you?"

"I'm a quick study," grinned the girl. "Besides: it's still just a coolant system, right? My Dad and I worked together designing the one for my suit. I know my way round them."

"Very well, if you follow Mister Jackson there I am sure he will put your skills to good use." Rip paused, staring at nothing for a moment while the four filed out to their allotted tasks, then turned to Rex. "Doctor Tyler, it strikes me that finding any more of this alloy may require a certain specialist skill that only yourself and Madame Jiwe possess. Please make sure you have some of your serum ready. We may also encounter various other dangers that, while not unusual for this team, would still warrant having a medic on standby and the medical bay fully stocked. Please see to it."

Rex nodded and left.

Mick watched him go. "Anyone else feeling outnumbered by nerds here?"

"There's nothing wrong with having a few nerds around," replied Sara, shooting a sly smile across the holotable at Rip while Mick's attention was still on the door. "Especially ones that are good with their hands."

Rip looked back down to the monitor and fought to keep a straight face. Sara saw his jaw tighten and she smirked. He was too easy to wind up.

"At least they are of more use than those content to sit back and do nothing," Amaya commented from behind Sara and Mick, brushing none too gently past Sara to get to the holotable. When she spoke next, there was something in the ingratiating way she said it that made her lucky she couldn't see Sara's face. "What can I do, Captain?"

"Tend to your weapons, my warriors," breathed Rip, not daring to look up. "For who knows what awaits us."

XXXX

"She does _not_ like me," said Sara, peering down at the star chart Rip had unrolled and weighted down on his round desk. Amaya's comment earlier in the day hadn't been the first snide remark of their acquaintance, and Sara was sure it wouldn't be the last either.

"Just give her time," Rip breezed, leaning down on the desk and looking up at her. He turned onto his side and studied her face, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear. He let his hand linger. "She barely knows you. The real you. She barely knows anyone. She barely likes anyone."

"She likes you," Sara sing-songed, tipping her head to one side to meet his hand, her eyebrows raised.

"She knows me," Rip reminded her, letting his thumb drift gently over her cheek. "She trusts me. There's a difference."

Sara looked at him with a smirk, raising one eyebrow further.

" _We_ are an entirely different kettle of fish," he shook his head, smiling despite himself at the memory Sara had invoked.

"We're pretty much an entirely different _everything_ compared to the world as she sees it," Sara commented.

Rip stood up and turned her face upwards to kiss her. "Doesn't matter what we are," he kissed her again. "Or who she likes," another kiss, "or doesn't like," and again. "It won't affect anything," another kiss, "that's going on between us."

Sara pulled away from a sixth gentle, lingering kiss and waved a hand at the star chart. "I thought what was going on between us right now was you teaching me how to read these things."

Rip pulled her closer and kissed her again. "Nah, I found something more interesting to do."

"This is important," she smiled, trying to ignore the lips trailing soft kisses down her neck. Not trying too hard, though.

"So is this," he murmured into her ear. This time, when their lips met again, she didn't pull away.


	39. A Time to Discover

"I have been tracking the course of the piece of dwarf star Doctor Palmer initially used to build his suit," reported Gideon, her clarion tones breaking the peaceful quietude of the kitchen. Forks paused in their movements. "I believe I have found something."

Forks dropped to plates. Chairs scrapped in hesitant apprehension.

"What is it, Gideon?" Rip asked, aware the others were waiting on him to do so. "Where and when are we going?"

"According to the data Doctor Palmer inputted into my systems," the AI continued, "the piece of dwarf star he discovered was only a small fragment of a much larger whole. My calculations suggest the complete mass of the dwarf star was torn apart by conflicting gravitational forces."

"Surely a dwarf star is too dense..." Martin began, his brow wrinkling.

"Not when it passes through the opposing gravitational pulls of two black holes, Professor," explained Gideon sweetly. Stein tipped his head and hummed an acknowledgement of the possibility. The computer continued. "My readings show that while some of the shards were indeed engulfed by the black holes on either side, others were thrown free and made their way to various suns and planets in the nearby galaxies. As a result, there are two other shards on Earth, however I fear that any interference with the discovery of them may adversely affect the timeline. I have located five alternative possibilities."

Now it was Sara's turn to frown. "If they're not on Earth..."

"Send the details to my office, Gideon," interrupted Rip, pushing his chair back further and rising. "I will take a look and let you know our next move."

Sara stood as he hurried to the door. "Are you seriously going back to cutting us all out of things again?"

Rip paused, one hand on the door frame, and swung round on a heel. "Nothing for you to worry about, I promise. I will explain everything once I've seen all the details."

"And you're the only one that gets to know all the details because?"

Rip grinned at her, that little half grin that she had seen crop up only occasionally for so very long. Now she saw it more often, but with a difference, and not with the rest of the crew behind her. He knew something they didn't. "Spoilers."

"Is it possible we're heading for our first alien encounter?" Ray queried, excitement obvious in his face and voice. "Maybe somewhere in a galaxy far, far away?"

"Or where no man has gone before!" Jesse chipped in, every ounce of her radiating at least as much enthusiasm as her older colleague.

"No _one_ ," corrected Ray, waving his hands expansively at the ladies present. "Next Generation did even up the gender inequalities a bit."

"You had a Next Generation on your Earth?"

"You didn't?"

"Oh God, there's two of them," sighed Sara, rolling her eyes.

"Can't a guy finish his meal in peace?" Mick complained. He had not stopped endeavouring to do so even when Gideon delivered her news. The two scientists subsided with a gentle laugh on Jesse's part. For some reason, she seemed oddly fond of Mick. Jax was still trying work out why. 

Rex, his chair by Jesse through her choice, stood and walked over to Sara. "Why did you say 'again'?"

"Long story," sighed the assassin, folding her arms. "It was way back when we first started working together, before we'd really gelled as a team. I thought he was over it. This is different though. I don't think we need worry."

"A good team follows its leader without question," breezed Amaya, collecting her dishes and putting them away.

"D'you say that to the Nazi soldiers whose ranks you infiltrated?" Sara asked mildly.

"Would you prefer I let them win, _assassin_?" Amaya challenged, turning to face Sara with cold steel in her eyes.

"No," Sara shrugged. "I'd just prefer you to remember they were often just scared German people following their leader without question. Every leader needs questioned, _spy_. It's how we make sure the bad ones don't take control."

XXXX

Rip was leaning over the holodeck on the bridge, alternating between peering down at the monitor and up at the faint blue image projected before him. Sara let the door close softly behind her and padded up to the captain, sliding her hand over his back and resting her head against his shoulder.

"What's it look like, Captain?"

"Hmm?" Rip murmured, shifting slightly to move closer to her. "Oh, we should be okay. I picked the most similar one. Easy time period too. Nobody's due there for years."

"Say again?" Sara smiled lifting her head to look up at him. His eyes still moved between the hologram and the monitor. He was lost in thought. She considered kissing his cheek, or running her fingers through his hair, but such subtle distractions would most likely fail. It didn't mean she couldn't enjoy entertaining the idea, of course, or the myriad other little ways she could think of to gain his attention. She hung there for a while, her arm draped round him, observing him at such close quarters she could see the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes. He didn't answer her, still lost in whatever he was doing. The others would be with them soon. Mick had almost finished eating and there had still been a dessert to serve, which only herself and Amaya had left without. It was one of the benefits of eating together as a group, she thought: for at least part of the day she knew exactly where everyone was and how long they were going to be there. She relinquished her hold on Rip.

A hand shot out and slid around Sara's waist, pulling her back to the captain's side. He turned to her and looked down. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Well, if you will insist on paying more attention to a computer screen than me," Sara joked. She felt the arm tighten around her.

"Believe me, it was difficult enough to concentrate on _before_ you were near," breathed Rip, trailing the fingertips of his free hand up her back and into her hair.

Sara's eyelids fluttered closed and their lips met. Beneath her hands, pressed so tightly to his chest, she felt his heartbeat quicken; she knew her own would mirror it. They broke apart and she looked up, letting her hands slide up to tangle around his neck. "Now that I have your full attention," she smirked, "try that explanation again, but without the riddles."

"Hmm, maybe we should wait for the others," suggested Rip, smiling down at her. The hand in her hair slid down her back in such a gentle caress she shivered. One corner of his lip curled into a devilish smirk. "I'm sure I can think of some way to pass the time."

Sara bit her lip and grinned, shaking her head. It wasn't fair. Why did he always have to be the one to get a reaction out of her, not the other way round? "They won't be long. It's gonna be like wrangling a bunch of kids on a high-school trip! Plus, Miss Foxy wasn't too happy with me and stormed off. Not that she _ever_ stays for dessert! I know she and I were never exactly bosom buddies, but I swear she's gotten worse these last few weeks. Do you think she suspects?"

Rip looked up and tipped his head from side to side. "That we're closer than just crew mates, and you have an influence on me, maybe. She's a little single minded when it comes to the chain of command. Everyone knows we're friends though. I think if she really thought we were _more_ than friends, she'd be letting me hear about it as much as you, maybe more. She speaks her mind, does our Madame Jiwe. You're a lot alike in that respect."

"Ooh, should I be getting jealous?" Sara grinned, looking up at him.

Rip looked back to the woman in his arms. "Nothing to be jealous of," he smiled, his voice low and soft. His lips curled and he looked away with a broadening grin. "Not that we actually said we're exclusive of course. I mean, strictly speaking, we're not even in a proper relationship."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to remember that next time we have any sort of shore leave," sighed Sara with a shrug and a sly smile. "After all, I do generally _prefer_ the ladies..."

Rip's mouth on her own cut her off, reminding her exactly why her preference had been pointing in a decidedly male direction lately. One male, at least.

"Miss Lance, Captain Hunter," rang out Gideon's voice, breaking the two apart and receiving rueful glares directed at the ceiling, "I believe you would both like me to inform you that the rest of the crew are approximately ten seconds from entering the bridge."

"Dammit," muttered Rip, combing his hands through Sara's hair to attempt to straighten it.

"I told you so," sing-songed Sara, smoothing down the creases in his shirt and flattening down his hair.

"Oh, be quiet you," breathed Rip, pressing his lips to hers once more, then wheeling away to the monitor and hologram again.

Sara rolled her eyes and sidled round to the far side of the table. The doors hissed open.

"Where're we headed, Cap'n," called Ray, managing to beat Jesse through the doors, but not to the table.

"Is that an alien planet?" Jesse asked, stopping by the side of the table and peering at the hologram.

"Well, technically, it's just a planet," corrected Rip, gesturing at the hologram. "We're the aliens."

"So, not Earth then?" Ray persisted, almost bouncing up and down in excitement. It was quite a sight to see a full grown, six foot something man hop up and down like a five year old on Christmas morning.

"Not Earth, Doctor Palmer, no," confirmed the captain. "Known to Earth, though, at least from a distance, in your era. This is one of the many planets discovered by the Kepler mission. Similar size to Earth, but a tad on the big side so you might find gravity sucks a little more than usual. In the habitable zone around its sun. Breathable atmosphere, if a little low on the oxygen levels. Fully functioning water cycle. No signs of intelligent life. Definite presence of life itself though. Approximately forty percent of the planet covered in liquid, or solid, water. Most of the rest covered by various photosynthetic organisms. Quite a bit of the oceans too. No large predators, as far as we know. Certainly not in the area we will be visiting. Please note, everyone: if you need injections to visit the other side of your own planet, that is nothing compared to what you will need if you are exposed to the pathogens here. _Everyone_ , and I really do mean everyone, will be wearing full hazmat suits, courtesy of Gideon. Oh, and Mister Rory, do not, I repeat, _do not_ steal, burn or otherwise annoy _anything_!"

XXXX

After its first junction, the labyrinth had divided many more times. Leonard had followed his path down tunnels and stairs, kneeling at every fork in the way or side tunnel to check which ceiling bore the right mark. They were all different. He was lucky he paid attention in the various monastic services: many were not quite so obvious a difference as the first. He was halfway through his third bag when the stairs began to spiral downward in a single-minded fashion. His back and legs were sore enough at the top, but after a few hours of descending steep, narrow, twisting steps he was ready to drop. A glimmer in the darkness, reflecting back the firelight of his torch, caught his eye and attention, pouring new life into his aching limbs. He staggered onward, putting out a hand to the chilling rock of the wall to steady himself as his legs got used to flat ground again.

The reflection had come from a door. It wasn't gold or silver, like stories might wish to have it. It was dark, grey iron, inlaid with brass lettering that was now familiar enough to Leonard's brain to translate instantly.

"Like calls to like, and seal to seal," Leonard muttered.

In the centre of the door, also inlaid in brass, was a six pointed star - made from pair of interwoven triangles - in a circle with markings that matched exactly the engraving on the ring. Leonard raised his hand, peering down at the ring in thought. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he was sure he could feel a slight tug towards the door. Switching hands with the torch, he slid the ring off his finger and held it out. When his outstretched hand was only a few short inches from the iron, the ring flew out of his delicate grasp and clung to the dull metal of the door. Leonard waited.

Silence.

No sudden inrush of ancient air. No grinding of gears or solid thunk of locks unlocking. No dusty scraping of metal on rock.

"Hmm," mused Leonard, tipping his head to one side, eyes flitting this way and that around the height and width of the door. "And yet you do nothing."

He plucked the ring off the door and paused again. Still nothing. One thoughtful eyebrow arched like the back of a cat then dropped again. The keen, agile fingers of the thief traced the lines and curves of the brass, then ran flat over the iron. There must be something here. There must be.

The pull of the ring to the door grew stronger near the centre of the symbol, where a round bronze plaque burgeoned outward like the boss of a shield. Leonard narrowed his eyes at it, then covered it with one hand and pushed.

Nothing.

He tried to slide the palm-sized dome up, then down, then to either side.

Still nothing.

He tried to rotate the dome first one way then the other. There was a slight movement, as if progress was impeded by a block of some kind.

Leonard hummed again and stared at the dome in thought. "I wonder."

The ring slid back on his finger easily. This time, when his hand touched the metal, there was a definite feeling that something had shifted. Leonard tried turning the raised brass again. This time, the block moved. The dome turned through a right angle and stopped. Leonard paused, listening. Somewhere deep within there was the grating sound of stone against stone. The sound stopped.

The door swung inward.

Darkness had reigned for aeons here behind the door, just like in the labyrinth that protected it. Just as in the labyrinth, therefore, the painted walls had suffered little from the ravages of time. Their colours met Leonard's eye as bright and true as the day they had been painted. Two sconces waited by the inner edges of door, ready to receive his torch and a companion. Once in place, their light bounced from gilded edge to gilded edge, and brass mirror to brass mirror. Leonard turned, surveying his find, one brow arching appraisingly. Row upon row of bottles lined the walls. Some were metal, some wood, some clay. All shone in one way or another. The metal was polished, the wood painted, the clay gilded. All were stoppered and that stopper sealed in place with wax. Into each of the wax collars was stamped the same symbol as the one on the door, and the one on the ring. The seal of Solomon. The bottles were on shelves and alcoves carved directly into the wall. They covered all four sides of the room. If anyone tried to find a way in that wasn't through the one and only door, some at least would surely smash. In the centre of the room was a plinth. He held his forearm up against the side. The Templars, in their fruitless excavations high above, were pretty keen on the use of the cubit as a unit of measurement, and the Egyptians had sworn by it, when they weren't busy swearing by him. Accounting for the natural variability so obviously inherent in the measurement, he estimated the plinth to be around three cubits long and two across. If he remembered his Bible readings correctly, and he was beyond sure he did, that would be pretty much perfect for one very specific article of note. Something the Templars were known to have been searching for despite the legends surrounding it.

What rested there now was not it.

Instead, what rested on the centre of the plinth was something much smaller, and much simpler. It was the only thing in the room that wasn't polished or somehow covered in gold. It was wood. Not a dark, sombre, luxuriant wood, like ebony or mahogany. Nor was it a light, resinous, silky wood like pine or olive. It was a small, simple, medium brown, cracked with age, hand carved, drinking bowl: handles protruding unevenly at either side and a short, wide stem keeping it stable on the flat surface of the plinth.

It was the other thing the Templars had been looking for.

They were expecting gold and jewels, or beautifully glazed terracotta at the least. What they were going to find looked like the result of a learning curve in carpentry. Not quite perfect enough to sell, but strong enough and useful enough to keep. A thought crossed Leonard's mind and his fingers strayed to an empty spot on his pinkie. He looked down at his hands and frowned. Ought there to be something there? Something in him felt there should. Something that the thought flitting through his brain had reminded him of. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. It was gone, whatever it was. He looked back to the item on the plinth once more and laughed.

"The Cup of Christ," he chuckled, reaching out a tentative hand. "In more ways than one!"

XXXX

"I can't believe I'm standing on an alien planet!" Jesse grinned, shading her eyes to look up at the sky.

"I can't believe I'm an alien!" Ray exclaimed, stopping and standing by her side. "I always wanted to know what it would feel like to be an alien. And now I do!"

"No superpowers though," Jesse smirked, casting her eyes about the new and intriguing landscape before them.

Ray deflated. He had the suit with him for emergencies, as always, of course, but Rip had insisted the only suit he wore on this mission was the one Gideon had provided him with. He had been allowed one photon blaster glove, carefully fitted over the hazmat suit, that would have to go through a rigorous decontamination when they got back.

"Can you believe ours are the very first eyes to view this entire world!" Martin exclaimed beside them. "Astonishing!"

"If we're not careful of the life already here, it might be our first trip to another planet _and_ our last!" Rex warned, joining the line up. "We're the alien species here. We might not have any predators specifically, but we also don't know all of what's out there, and have limited defences against them. Especially the microorganisms."

"Has your own area of research spent much time studying microorganisms, Doctor Tyler?" Professor Stein enquired, hands crossing behind his back in full serious discussion mode.

"Biochemistry is a naturally broad field, Professor, it touches on many aspects of biology, chemistry and medicine," replied Rex, entering a similarly scientific discursive attitude. "Actually, I was most recently involved in some work studying methods of safely disrupting the metabolism of the malarial endoparasite, _Plasmodium falciparum_. I believe we made some interesting and useful strides forward in that field."

"How fascinating," returned the professor, stepping a little away from the Waverider doors and letting the doctor follow him side by side. "Do tell me: were you targeting the parasite in its definitive or intermediate host?"

Jax stepped through the blue curtain of light across the open doorway of the ship. He looked from Ray, pointing out new sights and sounds to a sullen looking Mick, who had not been allowed to bring his usual gun, to Jesse, whose eyes were following the forms of Rex and Stein. One of them, anyway. He pulled a face. He knew what Grey was doing. Ray had turned to gush to his non-gushing buddy and Jesse had turned to do the same to hers, but he was no longer there. He was talking to Grey about something, and his heart-eyed follower had been left all on her own, ready for someone to step in and get noticed. In a way, he appreciated the help. At least the old man had learnt from the last time, or so Jax hoped. He rolled his eyes and sighed, plodding down the metal walkway to stand by the girl's side.

"Hey there, Speedy Gonzales," smiled Jax, interrupting Jesse's dreamy stare. She looked round at him and smiled. She smiled at everyone, but it was all the encouragement he needed. "No runnin' off explorin' this place, now. I got the jump ship flyin' fast, but not _that_ fast!"

"Don't you want to explore it though?" Jesse gushed, as he knew she would. "Something so new, so undiscovered, so different!"

"Oh, I do, believe me," he grinned back, rubbing the back of his hooded head with his gloved hand. "But it spoils the beauty of it if you go too fast. You gotta take time and appreciate all the small stuff along the way."

"And not burning a hole in my suit would help," she laughed, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I think I can manage to turn off the speed for this trip. But just look at this place! The rocks are so green! And it's not plants either, or 'photosynthetic life forms' as Captain Hunter calls them, it's the rocks! There must be huge proportions of copper compounds in them! And they shine! Look: you can see them sparkle!"

"Yeah, what is that?" Jax looked where she was pointing, his eyes scrunched up. "Diamonds?"

Jesse hurried over and picked up a stone, turning it over and over in her hands. "No, more like some kind of pyrite, or graphite. It's scattered all the way through it, randomly by the look of it. I would be able to tell more if I could get a sample back on board the ship, but Captain Hunter was right to warn against it: we don't know what else we might be bringing back with it."

"Can't we just decontaminate it?" Jax frowned, his brows knotting.

"The outside, yes, but even on Earth we've discovered bacteria that can survive actually inside rocks. It's amazing what we still have to learn about our _own_ extremophiles: to discover extraterrestrial ones would be amazing but _incredibly_ dangerous!"

"Everyone here?" Rip Hunter's voice called over the various levels of nerdspeak. Three pairs of heads turned to face him. As the group gathered obediently round him, he was aware of Amaya's cross-armed stance by his side. A slight turn of his head spotted Sara, leaning against the ship's closed door, watching him. He couldn't tell by sight, but he was absolutely certain she was grinning.


	40. A Time to Investigate

"Mick! Mick! Have you seen this slime?"

"Why the hell would I be interested in slime, Haircut?" Mick growled, picking his way down the rocky decline. They were heading down the slime and scree covered end of a furrow shaped depression in the landscape. At the furrow's far end, a mountain rose up high above them, the continuance of the one they had climbed just to get here.

"But look: watch what it does when I turn this rock around." The blue slime slid from the shady bottom of the rock to the sunlit top.

"I ain't interested in rocks either," growled Mick, marching steadily onward following the rest of the team. Those not busy wandering off to the side and geeking out about what they found there, that is. "Not unless its the rock that gets us out of this place."

"How can you say that? This place is amazing!" Ray ran back up the slope to carefully replace the rock where he had found it, right way up again. He let out a little squeal of delight when the slime moved round to the sunny side once more. There was no need to take a photograph: he had set the camera in his hazmat suit to record even before he left the ship and had no intention of switching it off until they returned. Turning, he raced back to the group, hurrying to catch up. In his haste, his foot caught a projecting stone and pitched the scientist forward. Suddenly Jesse was on one side of him and Mick on the other, holding him up.

"Idiot," snapped Mick, propping Ray back on his feet. "What's the one thing Doc told us not to do? Break the suits. You keep bounding about like some kid in a candy story and that's exactly what'll happen! Either you'll come a cropper or female Allen'll bust hers trying to save you. Quit it!"

"Hey!" Jesse and Ray complained together.

"Everyone okay back there?" Rip called, looking over his shoulder at the trio clustered together.

Ray gave a half-laugh in the heat of Mick's chiding stare then looked ahead. "All good Captain. Just, er, refocusing on the task in hand you might say."

"Well good," Rip called back, drawing the others to a halt as a glowering Mick frog-marched the two nerds towards them. "We only have three hours until sunset and this tracker of yours says there are still a fair few kilometres to go before we reach the shard."

"We couldn't have parked closer?" Mick grumbled, still glaring at the back of Ray's head.

"Not on this terrain," replied the captain. He raised a hand and pointed at a dark gap in the glittering rock wall at the far end of the furrow. "See that cave: that's where we are headed, Mister Rory. The shard of dwarf star ploughed into the side of this mountain and came to rest in there. We follow the tunnel its passage left and we should find it no problem."

"You had to say that, didn't you," groaned Jax, visibly deflating. "Now I _know_ somethin's gonna go wrong!"

XXXX

Leonard tucked the grail into his sack, carefully wrapped in one of the empties he had kept along the way. No shuddering collapse had threatened the room when he removed it. He hadn't expected any. The labyrinth and plinth had been built to house something much larger and heavier than a wooden drinking vessel. Besides, if the stories he had heard were right, and they sounded likely, the famed Ark of the Covenant had been long gone centuries before the Holy Grail took its place. He took his time to study the walls and their lining of bottles. He didn't believe in magic. Magic was just a word people used when they didn't understand stuff. Demons. Djinn. They could be anything. They weren't magic. Didn't mean there wasn't anything harmful in those bottles though. He knew enough, remembered enough, to come up with more than a few possibilities. Besides, somehow, the idea of a guy turning himself into a cloud of noxious green smoke didn't seem all too far fetched for him. Who knows what weird stuff they had in those bottles. He certainly wasn't going to risk finding out. If it _was_ something with a mind, and it was still alive, it was sure gonna be pissed by now.

He turned back to the door and stopped. He could have sworn he heard something. He closed his eyes and listened. There it was again. He angled his head, twisting this way and that like an owl, pinning down the sound. He turned, his face upward, and opened his eyes. It was coming from the ceiling. More specifically, it was coming from a hole in the ceiling. Sound was bouncing down it like light through a mirrored tube. He stepped closer, boosting himself up to sit on the edge of the plinth and turn an ear directly under the opening.

"We cannot simply leave him there, Hugh," said a voice. Leonard frowned. He could make out the words, but not the speaker. He could take a guess at the listener though. "The old man is dying for want of food! It is unchristian of you and goes against all we have fought for here."

"Have you no sense of proportion, brother?" Hugh de Payens replied, his voice as sharp as his blade. "What is one man's life to all that we will save with the power of the Lord behind us? He has been given bread and water every day. Enough to keep body and soul together. Our Blessed Lord survived on less during his sojourn in the desert."

"He is not Our Lord, Hugh: he is an old man! And a weak one! Who has been kept in an oubliette below your chamber with barely enough to survive for years! Even Our Lord spent only forty days in the desert!"

"He knows how to end his incarceration," retorted the voice of the founder of the Knights Templar. "All he need do is tell us what he knows: how to find the Grail. Simple. Tell us all and he will be given his freedom. Once we find the Grail, of course."

"What freedom?" The second voice grew more challenging now, graduating from pleading to revolt. "The freedom to die by your sword? Would you even let him be shriven first?"

"Come now, brother: you know I only kill in battle," wheedled Hugh in honeyed tones, pacifying and scornful all at once. "I have no need to kill old men who disobey me. I have you for that."

Leonard eased himself off the plinth and dropped soundlessly to the floor. Where in the temple walls the pipe led to he would probably never know, but if sound carried this far down it, or through it, it would likely carry back the same way with just as much ease. He couldn't risk revealing his ownership of the grail now. Better the boy and his master believe the chamber to be empty: lost in time since the son of Bilqis and Solomon took charge of the Ark and never opened again. By the sounds of it, he had another chamber to focus his efforts on now.

He didn't risk the grinding gears of the door. In all events, Leonard wasn't even sure how to close it again. Maybe it would close by itself, eventually. Who knew. He hurried upwards, retracing his steps and pausing occasionally to check. The journey back, being uphill, should have taken longer, but Leonard walked with a purpose now. Finally, one mission had yielded up a clue to the other, and it sounded like he didn't exactly have time on his side.

XXXX

"Are we nearly there yet?" Ray whined from the back of the group, the light from his solitary gauntlet bobbing ahead of them as they walked.

"What's wrong, Haircut?" Mick growled with the least interest possible. "I thought you couldn't _wait_ to explore your shiny new world of blue goop."

"Eh, even if I was, there's no blue goop down here, away from the light," pointed out the engineer. "Besides, I do want to explore. I just like to see what I'm exploring and know it's not going to kill me."

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"Aw, c'mon Mick: you're not actually telling me you're hoping for giant, freaky, man-eating, cave-dwelling, eight-legged monsters hiding around the next bend?"

The rogue grabbed Ray's gauntlet and turned the wrist upwards to illuminate his face from below. He loomed into view. "Well, I sure wouldn't say no to having _something_ to punch, Hair- _cut_!"

Ray gulped. In the silence it became obvious the others had noticed the lack of light.

"Put him down, Rory," called Sara, the tedium causing cracks to form in the assassin's emotionless veneer. "Don't make me come back there!"

"High school did you say?" Rip muttered. "Sure you didn't mean play school?"

"I was generalising," sighed Sara.

The light returned to their path and the group moved on. Jesse fell back a little to Ray's side. "You don't like it down here?"

"He's scared of spiders," rumbled Mick.

"Am not!" Ray frowned.

"Are too," muttered Mick.

"It's not my fault all the movies seem to condition us to expect eight-legged freaky things in places like this," tried Ray.

"Wouldn't know," shrugged Mick. "Don't watch 'em."

"How can you not..."

"What do you make of this?" Jesse asked, intervening before another round of bickering broke out. She held a green stone out in front her, her flashlight pointed down at it. "It looks like some kind of malachite or something, but not in any crystalline formation I've ever seen."

"No, nor I," mused Ray, sufficiently distracted. "Not that I'm an expert on malachite, of course. Or rocks in general. Never was too fond of malachite though. Too green."

"Too green?" Jesse's eyes didn't need light to make their expression of silent disbelief felt.

"Yeah, never been keen on green rocks. Don't know why," Ray shrugged. "Maybe they killed me in another life, who knows. This definitely doesn't look crystalline, though. Not in the way I'd expect for malachite. It looks metamorphic, like a schist of some kind. What's the other stuff running through it?"

"Not sure," frowned Jesse, shaking her head and putting the stone in a pocket, "but whatever it is, it's all over the place here. Seems like the whole mountain is made of it! Look at the walls."

Ray shone the light of his gauntlet all around the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. "Yeah, I see what you mean!"

"Ray!" Sara's voice yelled back. "Light!"

Ray pulled a face at Jesse and mouthed 'oops'. Mick pointed the gauntlet back in the right direction. Ray pulled another face. "Sorry!"

XXXX

Guillaume rose with the rest of the congregation, knelt with the rest of the congregation, recited prayers and responses with the rest of the congregation, and mimed hymns with the rest of the congregation, but Leonard's mind was elsewhere. His body had brought itself up from the depths of Solomon's Labyrinth, stolen away to his rooms to hide the grail and ring, and made its triumphant return from 'retreat' on the Sunday morning. He had been greeted with joy and warm smiles by those who knew him, or thought they did. Now he was attending mass, as was expected of him, and through it all his mind had been a blur of turning wheels and grinding cogs. Just a little longer then he would be free. Free to leave the Temple and take his damning information to Brother Antoine. He had work to do yet, though. He still had to report back to Odo and Astralabe. They could not change their routine to watch all night for him, and night it had been when he resurfaced. His first port of call, once the Sunday mass was over, would be to them.

Brother Antoine was at sext when the thief arrived at the hospital. He nodded in silence to those on duty that he knew and passed through to wait for the old monk in his herbarium. The door was locked, not that that mattered.

"Good to see you Brother," purred Leonard, smiling close-lipped when the old man jumped in surprise. The look on his face was quite amusing. "I come bearing news."

"You might have left me some sign to expect an intruder," muttered Antoine, regaining his composure and bustling over to a small, bubbling cauldron. "What would you have done if there had been another brother with me?"

Leonard shrugged lazily. "Pretended I was expected, or that I wanted to surprise you. Something would have presented itself. Plenty of the brothers in the infirmary saw me pass through in search of you. My arrival is hardly secret."

"Then I take it your news is of great importance," murmured Antoine, stirring the cauldron and turning back to his friend. "You have found a clue?"

"I have found the man."

"What?"

"At least I have his location and the knowledge he is alive and as healthy as can be expected. He's in an oubliette under the chamber of Hugh de Payens being fed bread and water daily, but not much of it by what I hear."

"And what _do_ you hear, brother?" Antoine asked solemnly. He knew his friend well enough by now to know it was the ageless thief of time he spoke to, not the lost pilgrim with no memory. That was how he thought of the enigma that was Leonard. The man whose memories, once scrambled, spanned not only the farthest reaches of human history, but also further, much further, into the future than Brother Antoine, with all his years and worldly experience, could fathom. He was a man of medicine, of science, and of faith. He believed in cause and effect, in logic and deduction, but also in miracles. He could not say how the man before him came to be here, yet here he was. It would be foolishness to hide in the explanations given to those that had not been party to the muddled memories of Guillaume. Antoine, in his part as physician, had listened patiently to all the evidence, mad as it may be, and had formed the only possible conclusion: it was all true. The man before him was the greatest thief of his time, perhaps of all time, and in return for an old man's kindness he was offering to steal Antoine's oldest friend out of the jaws of death itself. What else could he do but take him at his word and place himself entirely in Leonard's hands?

Leonard regarded the old man in silence, contemplating just how much he should be told. "His health is failing for want of food," he eventually remarked. "The head of that _noble_ order allows him, and I quote: 'enough to keep body and soul together'. I overheard him talking to another of his inner circle. Not sure which one, but it wasn't Brother André. There was no way of telling where they were: I was underground in the tunnels I told you of. The sound came through some kind of ventilation pipe like we used to have in the pyramids. Who knows where it led. Brother Odo seems to think it would be below the usual levels seen by either him or I."

"I know little of the Temple of Solomon," nodded Antoine, tugging at his beard in thought, "but I believe he is right. Once, in my youth, before the Temple Knights took over, I explored that place. There were many hidden places. The interior of the temple itself, however, had a door that led down to some much older layer, perhaps built as long ago as the time of Our Lord himself. There were many such odd openings in the lower walls. I thought they were drains, should the temple be flooded, but I could never work out where they went."

"And the chamber with the oubliette?" Leonard asked, leaning forward like a cat ready to pounce.

"I never found such a thing," Antoine replied, his white head shaking in thought, "but I believe, to save Brother Odo risking a breach of his vow of obedience, I could hazard an educated guess."

XXXX

The shard of the dwarf star protruded backward out of its rocky resting place like the trumpet of an oddly coloured daffodil, its jagged end barely worn by the intervening years and journey since it had torn itself away from its larger whole. Mick lifted a fist and knocked on the fallen star. It thunked.

"So that's a star is it?" Mick mused, looking the shard up and down. "Funny: I'd have expected it to be hotter."

"Dwarf stars are, while they're still burning," Ray shrugged, patting the shard thoughtfully. "This one's been burnt out for a _long_ time. Then, somehow, instead of exploding, something sent it hurtling through space to end up on a collision course with the opposing tidal forces of two black holes, which ripped it apart and sent fragments flying in almost all directions. Some of them landed on Earth, giving _me_ the chance to build my suit. This one landed here."

"Of course, whatever sent it flying, as you say, Doctor Palmer," chipped in Professor Stein, "may not have been anything remarkable, such as a collision with another object. The complex, overlapping interactions of gravitational pulls from multiple different sources in the universe, of which even you yourself are one, Mister Rory, are such that even stars and indeed galaxies may feel their effect."

Mick turned to eye Martin suspiciously. "You sayin' I'm fat?"

"How exactly are we plannin' on gettin' this thing out?" Jax interrupted, feeling the spike of worry loom up in his partner even as the pyro loomed over the professor.

"Oh, we don't want the whole thing," said Rip, shaking his head and ducking under the projection. "We'd never be able to carry it, even with the best of all our strength combined. We just need a decent sized chunk of it that, between them, Vixen and Hourman can carry back to the ship on the sling we brought."

"Isn't this stuff, like, the hardest material ever known?" Jax frowned, pointing at the shard. "If we're not diggin' it out, how're we supposed to cut it?"

"Oh, same way I did!" Ray chimed in, the ever permanent sunshine blossoming in his voice. "Easier, actually. I only had an industrial strength laser back then. Now I have the suit. Well, just the gauntlet for the suit, right now, but that's the part that matters."

Ray flapped his hands at the team and they all, with the exception of Mick, stepped back. Ray looked at him and pulled a face. Nobody else could see what kind of face, precisely, but Mick held his ground regardless. At least until he apparently felt an acceptable level of silent grovelling and pleading had been reached. The arsonist stepped away and leant back against the tunnel wall. Ray turned to the fallen star. He raised his gloved and gauntleted hand. Bright, white light shot out and focussed into a narrow beam so bright the team could see it even through their now closed eyelids. There was a great deal of sizzling and sparking, then a loud clunk echoed up the tunnel and dislodged a faint shower of green from the ceiling. The team opened their eyes. They blinked. A chorus of groans filled the now resounding silence. Rip, shaking his head to clear the persistent flare of light burned into his retina, stepped over to the chunk of dwarf star and nudged it with his toe. He was not stupid enough to give it a kick.

"It certainly is heavy," he muttered, pulling a folded item from the back of his suit. "Mister Tyler, Madame Jiwe, if you would."

Protective clothing was no barrier for either Legend. For Vixen, her totem was already inside the hazmat suit, around her neck as always. For Hourman, Gideon had incorporated a hypodermic delivery system that, when activated, delivered a dose of the serum straight into his blood stream. While their captain recruited his second in command to unfold the sling Doctor Palmer and Professor Stein had designed, Rex and Amaya set their hands around either side of the sample, and lifted it into place.

"How is it?" Captain Hunter asked when they both straightened up. "Heavy?"

"Not too bad," Vixen made the mistake of replying.

"You know I'm sure my gauntlet will let me cut through the rock here," chirped Ray. "Maybe we should take some more?"

The engineer aimed his gauntlet at the edge of the dwarf star and fired.

"No!" Jesse cried out, understanding dawning far too late.

There was a pulse of bright light at the edge of the shard, then an explosion. Blue electricity crackled along the silvery grey threads networking throughout the green stone.

"The other mineral in the rocks," called Jesse, straining to make herself heard over the fizzing of angry static. "It's graphite! It conducts!"

"Whoops!" Ray muttered, his eyes flying around the cave.

Rip was the first to see what was coming. "Everybody down!"

The burgeoning blue static seemed to find a point to earth itself. It was the remaining projecting end of the dwarf star. A ball of blue fire billowed at the end of the shard, then pulsed along the tunnel with a force that made sure anyone left standing soon wasn't. All the lights went out.

In the darkness, a worried voice called out: "Did I just make an E.M.P?"

"It should only last a few minutes," sighed Rip, hoping the rest of the team couldn't tell that was more a prayer than a prediction. He was aware of someone else in the darkness very nearby; someone who had just slipped their small, gentle hand into his and squeezed briefly. Amaya and Jesse were on the other side of the tunnel when the lights went out. With a smile he closed his fingers around Sara's and risked raising them to his lips for one quietly slowing heartbeat. "Just like our luck."

Slightly more than a few minutes later, the torches, and gauntlet, flickered back into life. The team got to their feet and looked back in the direction of the cave mouth. The light at the end of the tunnel had gone out. There had been a rock fall.

"Haircut!" Mick barked, slamming one huge hand down on Ray's barely protected shoulders. "You locked us in here. Take that damn glove of yours and go break us out!"

Ray tapped at the side of the gauntlet, a cloud dimming his usual demeanour. "I don't think I can, Mick. It won't work. Power's too low."

"Rex and Amaya could though," pointed out Sara. "They both have super strength, and we can help."

"Maybe in other circumstances my... my dear Miss Lance," Rip stumbled, his gaze focussed on something as yet still far off down the tunnel. "I fear we may have a rather more pressing problem."

"More pressing than a ton of rock on your head?" Sara quipped. Then she followed the light of Rip's torch. Still quite some distance away, and travelling extremely slowly but nevertheless inexorably in their direction, was the blue slime.

"Hey Ray?" Sara called over, keeping her eyes on the slime. "Wasn't that the stuff you were looking at outside?"

Ray looked along the tunnel and frowned. "Yeah, it is. It shouldn't be down here though: it's photosensitive."

"It doesn't like getting it's picture taken?" Mick hissed, appearing in the gloom behind Ray like the grin of a Cheshire cat.

"It responds to light energy and uses it to make chemical energy," explained the engineer.

"Not a lot of light down here," murmured Sara, "and it doesn't seem to be heading for the brightest patch."

"Miss Lance appears to be on to something," agreed Stein, watching the oncoming slime as Jax and Jesse helped him to his feet. "If the organism is merely photosensitive, it should be progressing more rapidly towards the nearby light of Captain Hunter's torch. Instead it seems to be favouring the opposite side of the tunnel. This side, to be precise."

By the professor's side, Jax sighed. "I got a bad feeling about this."


	41. A Time to Escape

"The slime must be sensitive to the electromagnetic spectrum," frowned Rex, his head turning from one side of the group to the other.

"Pretty sure I just said that, Doctor Tyler," snarked Ray, who was growing increasingly uncomfortable under Mick's unblinking stare.

"Actually you said photosensitive, Doctor Palmer," replied Rex in a quiet, calm, level voice. "Sensitive to visible light. But visible light only makes up a tiny part of the electromagnetic spectrum. What if an organism could use more of it than just the visible?"

"Photosynthesis does usually peak in the blue part of the spectrum," agreed Professor Stein, "and why limit oneself to what little the human eye can detect?"

"The goop is blue," growled Mick, still not taking his eyes off Ray. "How does that fit in?"

"Photosynthesis peaks in the blue and red ends of the visible spectrum, Mister Rory," explained Rex. "At least on Earth. Meaning the plants there absorb light from either end of the spectrum but less so the middle. Light from the middle part of the spectrum gets reflected or transmitted through the leaf. Most of it is green."

"Like what we see?"

"Correct."

"And they don't use that?"

"Also correct."

"Get back to the blue."

"As you say, our plants appear green because they don't use as much green light. These organisms appear blue, presumably for the same reason. They do not use as much blue light. As the sun of this planet is a red giant, it makes sense. The light from our smaller, yellow sun gets bent in our atmosphere to appear mostly blue: that's why the sky looks blue. The light from this red giant doesn't bend so far. Or rather, bends the same, but from a more distant starting point. The sky here is yellow, fading to green at the horizons, and the temperature on the surface is much hotter during the day but much cooler at night, like a desert. Up on the surface the slime gets all the electromagnetic energy it needs during the day but at night..."

"Infrared radiation!" Jesse muttered, her face growing increasingly worried. "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh? Why the uh-oh?" Mick rumbled, turning his attention to the girl. "Infrared's just heat, ain't it?"

"And now the slime is honing in on the closest heat sources," supplied Ray with a sigh of resignation. "Us."

"Us in general," agreed Jesse, edging backwards, her hand still loosely on Martin's arm. "More specifically: me."

"You? Why you?" Jax looked over with a blink.

"My speed gives me a high metabolism," she explained. "High metabolism, high body temperature."

"Well, that goop might be lookin' for a three course meal in this direction. Grey and I usually run hot as well, even when we're not being Firestorm!"

"Did you know about this?" Sara hissed into Rip's ear while the varied sounds of bickering, hypothesising and attempting to play peacemaker flitted across the tunnel.

"Do you honestly think I would have brought any of us out here if I did, Sara?" Rip hissed back, turning to catch her eyes. "An organism that's attracted to heat and I bring a pyromaniac, the human equivalent of nuclear fusion and a speedster into the heart of it? At night?"

"You knew about this planet. You know its history. It's future!" Sara peered into the glowing green orbs. Sometimes she could tell if he were hiding something from her, but not always. Not if he really wanted to shut her out. "You still think this was a better bet than the others?"

"Obviously not," snapped the captain, nose to nose with the assassin. "Clearly my information was flawed and had I had even the inkling of such a creature here I would rather have risked the timeline on Earth than choose a course of action I knew might end up like this!"

"I swear to God, Rip: if you are lying, or hiding stuff again..."

"I wouldn't, Sara!" He shook his head, holding her eyes all the while. "I swear! Not from you."

"You made Mick leave his gun."

"Hardly definitive proof! Besides: that's just about the one thing we could really do with right now. I doubt a laser pistol will be much use, and we're certainly not trying Doctor Palmer's photon blaster again! Even organisms that prefer the heat can only take so much of it!"

Sara's eyes unfocussed. "Heat. They prefer heat..."

"What?" Rip's eyes narrowed, trying to read her thoughts in her expression. His hand closest to the rock wall drifted up to her wrist, brushing his thumb back and forth across the underside. "What did I say? What are you thinking?"

"It's not the heat gun we need," she murmured, looking back up to him, her fingers uncurling unconsciously to intertwine with his, "it's the cold gun. Leonard's gun. It's in the armoury. But there's no way to get to it, or get it here."

Rip stared down at her, then his gaze turned off to the side, to the rest of the group. "Maybe there is."

XXXX

The days were lengthening into summer, but Leonard still hadn't located Fulcher or pulled together a plan for his rescue. This wasn't like the slave ship in Acre: he couldn't just storm in and hope for the best. Back there they were the bad guys and he was the white knight. Here, he was surrounded by white knights, literally! He had been forced to tread carefully, and when it came to careful, Leonard could tread like a cat. He had managed to keep Brother Odo and Astralabe out of it so far, using them only as guards over his newest toy: the labyrinth. Only Brother Antoine knew his progress and his plans. The chamber Antoine had suggested to him had not been the right one, but that had taken time to find out and had required the cultivation of his tepid friendship with the Templar who had discovered him.

Leonard had met with André more often since his so-called retreat from the community. Probably more of a retreat than most, he thought every time the phrase 'so-called' echoed in his brain. He had been alone with himself, his thoughts and his beliefs. He could have prayed, had he been the praying type, but even as Guillaume he had been sure religion was not for him: it was simply a way to fit in fast in a new and unfamiliar world. Although, he did like the sung services. The chanting of the priests and monks was... Well, it was peaceful, in a way. It gave his mind time to think without the clutter of everything else. So had the labyrinth. Free time in the growing heat of spring had been a burden made easier by the task of exploring the remainder of the chilly labyrinth. It had hidden him away from the heat and the world. It had given him a sanctuary, watched over by friends. And it had reminded him what the best kind of friend was: the friend with power.

André had power.

Not much, Leonard granted, but enough. Enough to get Guillaume access to a greater knowledge of the monastery, even if he had to tease the fragments of information out a piece at a time. Enough to get his face known as an intimate of the knight. Enough, eventually, to get him access to the building that housed the nine knights' personal quarters. He couldn't be sure how much André knew. His was not the other of the two voices he had heard whilst in the labyrinth: that much Leonard was certain of by now. What he could not be certain of was how far down through the nine the conspiracy went.

Nine men, brothers in arms, had started this movement. Would they have kept the knowledge of their crime between only the top few? Could they have? With lives so closely intertwined, was it feasible to contain such information to only a part of the group? Was it credible? To all intents and purposes, André seemed like a nice guy. So did Archambaud, though, whom the kid had claimed caught him with the picture of Bilqis visiting Solomon. Godfrey and Hugh were more distant, but then they were the two that had brought the rest together. They were the leaders. Godfrey had been the other knight present when the picture had been confiscated from Astralabe. Leonard could well imagine him scaring the boy. As far as he could tell, the man wasn't actually a bully; he was just sharp and cold, authoritative and taciturn. Hugh, on the other hand, was a demanding general, fiery and charismatic, marshalling troops with his voice and his actions whenever Leonard set eyes on him. He was certainly a passionate man, but then so were most fanatics. And like the good Christian knight that he was, Hugh divided his time mostly between training and prayer, spending what little remained well out of Guillaume's reach and making it was impossible to tell which of his brethren might feel free to question him so vehemently in the way Leonard had overheard. No: no matter how much time Leonard spent in André's presence, it would be impossible to be sure of his confidence. Even if he did not know of Fulcher's imprisonment, his loyalty would surely be to his leader first.

Alone in the cavernous darkness of the labyrinth, Leonard sat. A dark lantern sat by his side, its shutters closed and candle out. He could have lit it had he wanted to, but the memories were easier to find down here, without the interference of images from the world around him to confuse matters. Every day he felt he was losing a little more of himself. Every day, when chores and plotting had left him free for the long evening, he took out his papers and read them, then made his way down into the depths to remember. The bundle of papers was larger now, but it had been a while since he last added to them. They were filled with stories. Stories of a luckless boy growing up in a cruel world. Stories of a master thief who used cruelty to make his own luck. Stories of a loveable nerd who had tried to turn the thief's life around. Stories of a detestable idiot who had succeeded. Stories of the friend he had turned into an assassin. Stories of the assassin he had turned into a friend. Only a friend?

A noise broke through his thoughts. Leonard's eyes flew open. Every muscle in him tensed. To move might be to give away his position. The noise had been tiny, infinitesimal, and ridiculously difficult to place. Was it from the labyrinth? Had someone come down here looking for him? Or was there another of those pipes somewhere nearby? There surely had to be more than one. As far as he knew, the only people who knew of the labyrinth were Odo, Antoine and Astralabe. If the upper echelons of the order knew of it, why would they still be digging elsewhere?

The noise sounded again. Leonard's head snapped round, pinpointing the source like an owl did mice. He was facing the descending part of the spiralling walkway. It wasn't a person then. At least not one in here with him. Carefully, all the same, he raised himself to his feet, crouching again to light the candle in the dark lantern by his side and lower the shuttered windows over it. Edging one shutter open, a narrow beam of light illuminated the path before him and Leonard set off, walking slowly, in search of the invading sound.

The noise sounded again. It was a creaking tap, like the sound thick branches of trees make in the wind. Had the day been so hot up above? Was it merely the sound of the maze of tunnels settling? Either way, he had already gone past it. He turned and walked back a little, running deft fingers over the centuries old cut rock. It was cool beneath his touch. Cold. He liked the cold. He paused. He ran his fingers back a bit. He ran them forward. That was interesting. He flattened the back of his hand against the rock, first forward, then back, then forward again. On the outside Leonard frowned. Deep down on the inside, the thief grinned. The rock was warm.

XXXX

"I do not like this, man," warned Jax, fixing Rip with a glare far sterner than any his nuclear partner had ever thrown in a wayward student's direction. "You were the one who warned us about damaging these suits and now you're asking one of us to do exactly that? You know there's no way the suit'll hold up to superspeed all the way back to the ship, and that's without phasing through an unknown quantity of alien rock surrounded by an unknown quantity of heat-seeking, blue, alien slime!"

"Technically we're..." Rip began.

"I do not care who the alien is!"

"Miss Wells' speedster metabolism, while making her a more tempting target for the organism, also makes her most likely to survive any direct exposure to pathogens," pointed out the beleaguered captain. "Not only does it regenerate cells, produce antibodies and do all manner of other biochemical reactions much faster than yours or mine, it is also from not just another planet but another universe! It's our best option. As far as I can tell, it's our _only_ option! If you have another suggestion, Jax, I will happily listen to it!"

"What happens if the blue slime touches Miss Wells?" Martin asked, his face set in pensive thought as he watched the progress of the oncoming tide.

"I really have no idea," admitted Rip.

"Dude!"

"Jax, I have to do this," Jesse stated, folding her arms and catching the mechanic's eye. "Captain Hunter is right: we're all dead if we don't get that gun back here."

There was a sigh from Martin as he sensed his partner's growing frustration. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder and turned him to the captain. "Go ahead, Jefferson, I'm with you. It'll give her a better chance and very little survives temperatures of that degree. Nothing that I can think of!"

"What's he talking about?" Rip frowned, glancing between the two men.

"This stuff's attracted to heat, right?" Jax asked, waving a hand at the slime. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it: I'm the hottest thing in here. Or _we_ are, anyway. If we merge we can attract the slime away from Jesse: give her a chance to get through."

"You would have to break containment to merge..."

"We know," broke in Professor Stein. "But only a hand each and only for as long as it takes to merge. After that, the heat produced should be too much for pathogens to survive. Certainly the ones you might find down here."

"We can't keep it up for long, though," warned Jax, looking back to Jesse. "Once we've merged we'll start using up what oxygen there is in here pretty fast."

"Not to mention the general rise in temperature of such enclosed surroundings," added Stein.

"Do it," decided Rip. "Jesse: try phasing through the rock wall here before you try the blockage. The less time you need with Firestorm covering you, the better for all of us."

It took a few tries, but perseverance tends to be a shared feature of scientists, not to mention speedsters, and in the end Jesse found the right frequency to phase through the odd, green and silver rock. With a nod, Jax and Martin removed a glove each and merged. The slime responded to the infrared flare immediately, edging closer and closer to Firestorm's position. The ceiling of the tunnel wasn't high, but it was high enough for the merged duo to get airborne.

"Fly to the far end of the tunnel, Jefferson," instructed Martin's voice in his partner's head. "First draw the slime away from the others."

"We need this stuff _away_ from the block, Grey!" Jax pointed out. "That'll just bring it to it!"

"But mostly to one side," replied the professor. "It should be enough to leave a clear patch for Miss Wells to phase through and then allow us to keep both the slime and the majority of the heat away from our other colleagues. If we need to edge down the tunnel towards the others, having further to go buys us time before the slime reaches them. Time we may need!"

"Point taken," he muttered, flying over the slime to the furthest corner of the cavern. Sure enough, it edged over towards him, leaving a clear path for the blur that zoomed past him and disappeared into the rock. All he could do now was wait. Wait, play chicken with heat-seeking blue slime, and pray.

He didn't have long to wait.

By the time Firestorm was halfway down the corridor of rock, being faithfully followed by the slime, the blur returned. Jesse, now clad in her own, friction-free suit, bore aloft the cold gun triumphantly.

"That's not a toy, female Allen," growled Mick.

Somehow, the growl held a little more menace than it usually did for Jesse. She turned to face the grim giant and held the gun towards him on both hands, like a supplicant before a monarch, presenting their offering. "Sorry, Mister Rory. You should have this."

"Not my element," grumbled Mick, eyes fixed on the girl, not the gun. "Give it to Haircut. He's always tryin' to be cool."

Jesse presented the gun to Ray in similar fashion and this time it was accepted.

"Firestorm, fall back," called Rip, nodding to Ray. "Doctor Palmer, if you would."

The beam of cold reached the slime faster than it could move out of its way. A crackle echoed along the tunnel as the slime froze. Step by step the team advanced. Finally the wall of fallen rock lay before them. Rex and Amaya looked over to Rip, ready to access their abilities.

"Let us try some elemental chemistry first, I think," replied Rip, raising a hand to stop them. "Doctor Palmer: what happens to a glass if you freeze it then heat it rapidly?"

"It shatters," replied Ray. "But Rip: that could bring the whole ceiling down on us!"

"Lack of oxygen, I believe, would have a very similar long term effect. We do not have time."

Ray glanced over to Firestorm. There was an odd tinge to the flames surrounding him.

"Grey says he's right, Ray," said Jax with a shrug. "You gotta try."

The rock faded from bright jade green to a pale duck egg blue as the ice covered it. Jax summoned up his deepest energy reserves.

He drew back a hand.

He fired.


	42. A Time to Answer

The door was closed.

"Gideon?" Rip's voice frowned up at the ship. "Open the door, please."

"I'm sorry, Captain, but the protocols you set in place prior to your departure have been activated."

"Meaning what exactly?" Sara asked, fixing Rip with a steady, icy stare.

"Captain Hunter programmed me to scan continuously for any signs of life not caused by current members of the crew," replied Gideon. "Should I find any other organism on board, I am instructed to eliminate them immediately. Should I find any such organism present on any member of the crew, I am instructed to refuse that crew member entry to the vessel."

Sara's eyes widened, her eyebrows making a bid for her hairline, and she turned to face her captain with defiantly folded arms. He didn't even look embarrassed.

Rip could feel the stares and glares of the others boring into his skull. "Until instructed otherwise, if I recall, Gideon."

"Correct, Captain."

"Then it would be helpful if you would please inform us all which of us has picked up a passenger on our latest perambulation."

"Did you mean **_'who is infected'_** , Captain?"

The answer was unanimous. "Yes!"

"I am afraid that Miss Wells has acquired an unknown infection."

 

"Very well. Kindly open the door with the force field intact," ordered Rip, his eyes still fixed on the hull. "Miss Wells, when the door opens I would like you to go straight to the containment cell in the medical bay, as fast as you can. Gideon will open the panel for you. Gideon, once Miss Wells is safely in containment, decontaminate the rest of the ship, and as much of her person as possible. Let us know when it is safe to board."

"Understood, Captain," replied the AI, while the speedster merely nodded.

The hull door opened. As soon as it grew close enough to the ground, Jesse was off: gone, in a flash. The door continued its passage, reaching the rocky surface with a dull thud. The blue light in the doorway buzzed faintly, the crew waited.

And waited.

"The ship has been successfully decontaminated, Captain," reported Gideon.

"Would it have killed you to report Miss Wells' safe arrival, Gideon?" Professor Stein asked acerbically, all too aware of the source of the sense of relief flowing through him.

"My apologies, Professor," replied the computer. "I was not aware that you were worried."

"Believe me, neither was I!" Martin muttered, following the others back on board the Waverider. Before passing through the blue light he paused. "Gideon, if I ever wish I could remember what it was like to be young and in love: please remind me of this moment!"

The containment unit was small, but comfortable: the exact opposite of the brig. Nevertheless, to Jesse, that was exactly what it felt like. By the time the rest of the team reached her, she was already feeling more than a little antsy.

"I apologise, Miss Wells, but it is imperative than any alien pathogens be stopped as quickly and as bloodlessly as possible," murmured Rip, watching the pacing speedster with the same expression a zoologist might give a tiger in a too-small cage. "All of Gideon's medical functions are available in the containment unit and the likelihood is that your accelerated metabolism will..."

"Yes. I know." Jesse hissed. "Gideon started taking samples and doing scans as soon as the door was closed."

"Did she explain the facilities available?" Rip continued, dauntless.

"Yes," Jesse sighed. She sat down on the bed. "I'm fine. Really. Please! Would you all stop staring at me like that? I feel like some kind of rare exhibit!"

"Of course, my apologies," replied the captain. "We'll let you get some rest. Gideon, keep me informed."

Rip turned on his heel and stalked out of the medical bay, the majority of the crew following. Only one stayed behind, turning to sit with his back to the clear wall. At the door, Martin looked back and rolled his eyes.

Sara caught up with Rip outside his bedroom door as he went to get changed out of his suit and followed him inside. The full name of the suit had been a Personal Extraterrestrial Exploration Vehicle, but one imagined joke about pet peeves had made the captain resort to the term 'hazmat'. So far he had not had cause to regret the decision. He got the feeling he was about to regret something else, though.

"You're quarantining her?" Sara exploded as soon as the door closed behind her. "Rip, she's just a kid!"

"Standard protocol for any of your own era's aid teams travelling to areas of serious threat," he muttered, detaching hood and gloves and placing them in an alcove. They dematerialised.

"Not standard on a timeship, apparently!" Sara shot back, ripping off her own and doing likewise.

"Well, considering they were built for solo travel..." Rip began, unzipping the suit and stepping out of it.

"Really solo with three floors and how many bedrooms, again?" Sara cut in, echoing his movements.

"Any timeship is capable of carrying a number of troops to dispel any deliberately caused time aberration..." One suit went in the alcove.

"Like the ones we caused..." The other suit followed it.

"Like the ones Time Pirates cause!" Rip interrupted with a pointed wave of his hand. 

"And when exactly were you planning on telling us..."

"I hoped I'd never have to!" The captain was aware his voice was beginning to rise.

"And yet you still sent her!" Sara flung out a hand in the direction of the door.

"I had no choice!" Rip protested. Loudly.

Sara folded her arms again, her voice dropping to whisper. "What if she gets sick?"

"Then we won't," he explained. "That's rather the point!"

"Do you have any idea how selfish you sound?" Sara hissed.

"Selfish?" Rip blinked. "I have to think about the _entire_ crew, Sara: not just myself! Do you think, for one second, that I wouldn't gladly..."

"Do you think any of the rest of us wouldn't?" Sara pointed out, her voice beginning to rise again. "She's just a kid, Rip!"

"She's young and strong! That's more than can be said for the rest of us!" Rip retorted, matching her. "Can you see Martin surviving some alien ailment? Mick, perhaps? Even you'd struggle! Jesse has a chance. A good chance! Gideon has complete control over the interior of the containment cells, and is perfectly capable..."

"Cells? You mean there's more than one?" Sara frowned, dropping her arms and watched him.

Rip sagged, stepping back with his hands falling to his hips. "You didn't even know there _was_ one until I mentioned it!"

Sara ignored this. "How many cells are there, Rip?"

"Sara..."

"How many?

He looked up at her, with a sigh, from under the shadow of his brows. "Three. Not counting the brig."

Sara thought about this for a moment, her eyes locked on his. "That's not enough for the whole crew. There's nine people on this ship. Even back when you first recruited us, there were nine."

"Yes, I can count, thank you!" Rip snapped, waiting for her to get it.

"You didn't tell us, because there would never be enough," she said slowly, watching him. "Those cells only sleep one person. All it would take is for Firestorm to come back infected too and they'd be full. Okay, so you'd have the brig to use, but I'm guessing it doesn't have the medical capabilities of the others or you'd have counted it with them. Doesn't exactly have the sleeping facilities either."

"No, indeed, so..."

"That doesn't explain why you didn't tell _me_ though," continued Sara, ignoring his interruption and stepping closer. "I thought we agreed: no more secrets. Not between _us_!"

"Sara..." Rip's voice dropped and his hands itched to reach out to her.

"Captain, I hate to interrupt," interrupted Gideon cheerily.

"I bet you do," sighed Rip, letting his eyes fall closed.

"However, I believe you wished to be informed of any change in Miss Wells' condition," continued the computer.

Rip's eyes snapped open and upward. "Yes, Gideon. What change?"

"Miss Wells is experiencing difficulty breathing and I am detecting an elevated heart rate."

"Treatment?" Rip barked back, hastening past Sara to the door.

"Broad-band antibiotics, antifungals and antiexotics dispersed via epidermal contact upon arrival," Gideon reported. "Bronchial anti-inflammatories, general antihistamines and a mild sedative introduced into the controlled atmosphere upon onset of symptoms. Oxygen levels have also been increased to maximum."

"Antiexotics?" Sara queried, following Rip out of his room.

"You really think we're the first time travellers to visit an alien world?" Rip asked her, without looking round. "I knew of one fellow who was constantly taking impressionable young women off to one exoplanet or another. Even tried it with my wife once!"

They reached the medbay to the sound of Jax hammering on the clear wall and yelling at Gideon to do something. Jesse was on the floor, face down. Rip immediately glanced up. "Gideon?"

"Miss Wells is still having increasing difficulty breathing, Captain," Gideon informed the room at large. "The medication is having a negligible effect."

"I thought you said all of Gideon's medical facilities were available in there?" Sara queried, dragging Jax back from the door.

"The surgical ones rather rely on the patent lying face up, preferably on the bed!" Rip replied, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine, get out of my way then," called out Sara, ignoring the wild look that Rip shot in her direction. "Let me into the containment cell, Gideon. Just me."

"Sara, no!" Rip yelled, louder by far than he had intended. His hand shot out to her arm, but she shook him off. "You could die!"

"Been there, done that," was the curt, emotionless, reply. "If I don't do this she will."

"Just get Jax out of here," Rip persisted, stepping in front of Sara with his hands up. "I can get her up onto the bed and Gideon can take it from there."

"No, you're the captain," she calmly stated, eyes fixed on the struggling girl in the cell. "We can't risk losing you again."

"As the Captain, it's _my_ responsibility..."

"Gideon! Close the medbay doors and let us all in!" Jax yelled, pushing past the arguing pair. "Before it's too late!"

"Captain?" Gideon's voice wavered. "This is highly unorthodox."

"When isn't it," Rip sighed, still blocking Sara's way, searching her face for any kind of response, willing her to look at him. Just look at him. "Do as he says, Gideon. Where they go, I go."

Sara's stubborn features flickered for a moment. By the time her eyes looked back up to where Rip had been he was gone: crouching over by Jax, helping him lift Jesse onto the bed. The blue light of Gideon's scanner blinked into life and robotic arms extended from the cell walls. Rip pulled Jax back, out of the cell, and the door slid closed. Blue light scanned the three figures standing silent in the medical bay, one - Jax - watching the progress of Jesse's operation with an intensity that could have burned through steel, the other two staring at the floor. Rip's eyes flicked back up to Sara. She met them, a question hovering unspoken in the air between them. Time seemed to slow, dragging out the seconds to an eternity. The blue light rippled up their bodies. The robotic arms cut open the speedster's throat, inserting a tube and fixing it securely in place. Jesse's chest rose and fell in long, deep, shuddering breaths, and Jax's echoed hers. Behind him, the captain and his second watched and waited.

And waited.

"Miss Wells' oxyhaemoglobin levels are returning to normal, Captain," reported Gideon. "Decontamination of the medical bay is complete and no infection is detected in either yourself, Miss Lance or Mister Jackson."

"What are her chances, Gideon?" Jax demanded, eyes still fixed on Jesse. Behind him, Sara and Rip's eyes were still fixed on each other.

"Miss Wells' immune system appears to have had an allergic type reaction to something picked up during her time on the planet's surface," explained the computer. "Her elevated healing rate and the severely hypoxic conditions created by them has now dealt with the foreign cells, however the reaction itself caused the crisis point. The tracheotomy I performed will allow her to breathe normally until her body has recovered. When it is safe to do so, I shall remove the tube and allow her rapid healing to close the wound. There is no further danger to her life."

"Thank you, Gideon," said Rip, breaking the weighty silence that had built up between the two. "Mister Jackson, if you will excuse us, I believe Miss Lance and I need to have words, in private."

"I'm not leaving her..."

"No, no," Rip cut in, breaking away from Sara's steady gaze to glance round at his younger crew mate and the still deeply breathing girl he was watching. Her colour was already starting to return to normal. "No, I wouldn't dare ask you to do that. We'll just be across the hall."

He turned back to Sara, but she was already heading for the door. She led him across the hallway into one of the storage rooms. The door clicked shut behind them.

"I can't tell if you're going to yell or hold another knife to my..." Rip started. He was cut off by his back hitting the door and Sara's mouth on his. It was quite some time before they came up for air. "Well, that works too."

Sara punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't do that again! I don't need you taking risks for me!"

"It wasn't your risk to take," he replied, cupping her face in his hands to look at her. "It was mine."

"Would you have taken it if I hadn't been about to?" Sara challenged him, holding his gaze. Her hands slid up his chest and curled around his neck.  
Rip let his forehead rest on hers and paused in thought. "Yes, I believe I would have. Probably. Maybe. Maybe with a few more precautions in play." He sighed. "I'd risk myself a thousand times before I'd risk you though."

Sara reached up and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, chaste and gentle. It soon became apparent, however, it wasn't going to stay that way for long.

XXXX

It was amazing. The tunnel network led everywhere. It spread out beneath the mound like an anthill. It popped up in the oddest places, both within the walls and out. It seemed as though every other corner of the old city had a secret way in or out of the tunnels. They were impossible to map, at least on paper. They twisted and turned, dived and rose, winding round each other and over each other in a bid to confuse anyone caught in their midst. They almost caught Leonard.

Memories came back barely at all now, but the one that itched at the back of his brain when he entered the tunnels was one of gods and monsters, heroes and princesses, mindless violence and a very clever ball of string. He had 'borrowed' a ball of string from the marketplace. He had had to go back for another one.

Finally, he found it.

It was a hot day in August, nine months to the week since his arrival in Jerusalem, and he had lifted a whole fresh loaf from the table at the midday meal. The walk back to his chamber was unnecessary: he had been filling a sack with everything he would need for the past week, and had stashed it away at the bottom of the shaft into the labyrinth. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, tying the drawstrings to the bottom corner across his body to leave him his hands free. There was a sword on one hip and a dagger on the other. Hugh de Payens believed that prayer and training were good for all within the walls, not just the warrior monks. He lit his torch and stepped through the hidden door. He had followed all paths but one so far; now he intended to follow that path to its conclusion. The string that would lead him back to relative safety held fast to its anchor, unwinding silently from a loop of the same string tied loosely through his belt.

Onwards he walked, now climbing, now descending, circling back and twisting away, until finally a wall blocked his path. This was not unusual. Walls blocked many paths in the tunnels. Most of them were doors. Guillaume raised a hand to the wall. It was warm. Warmer than the tunnels anyway. Warm enough to lead to somewhere with a fire burning in the hearth. He pressed his ear to the wall. Nothing. Agile fingers traced the torch-lit surface. Nothing felt particularly moveable at the level of the eyes. No peepholes then. He mentally counted the time from his departure and reckoned in the still long hours of the day. It could not be time for sleep yet. Either this wall was thick enough that you couldn't hear anything through it, or there was nobody in the room on the other side. All Guillaume needed to do now was find a way to open it.

He needed the thief for this, and the thief was fading. Leonard. The thief who had fallen through time. The man who had stolen time from its guardians, like fire from the gods, and been thrown into the chasm of history in retribution. He was trying to hold on to him. Whether by reading through the fanciful stories written in his papers, or by talking it over with Brother Antoine, he was managing, just, to hold on to the scraps of memory. The thief's memory. Or was it his? Did it matter?

Eventually, Guillaume's fingers caught a tiny irregularity in the wall to his right. He pressed. There was a click, a hiss of air movement, and a line of light appeared around the edge of the door. He peered cautiously into the room. He could see nothing. The door opened behind an arras, hanging down to cover the bare stone from ceiling to floor. He listened again. Was there anyone else there? It didn't sound like it. One foot emerged from the opening door into the bedroom. Piece by piece, the foot was followed by the rest of its owner. Guillaume edged to the end of the arras and glanced from side to side and all around him. This was a bed chamber, but not one inhabited by one of the workers. There was room enough in this room for a large and comfortable looking cot, big enough for one person, when you took into account the person in question was a knight. No personal paraphernalia peppered the room, giving him any clue to its owner. At best he might guess that it was, at the very least, one of the nine.

In the hopes that he had finally found the chamber of the founder of the Knights Templar, he scoured the room for any sign of an oubliette. Nothing. He was close, though: he was sure of it. Footsteps sounded and he ducked back behind the arras. The footsteps drew close. He held his breath. Anonymous as a penitent, they crossed the room towards the bed. Rustling occurred. With never a word to give voice to their owner, the footsteps died away again. Guillaume hurried out of his hiding place and over to the bed. The covers were rumpled at one end, as they had not been before. He went straight to them, slipping his hand under without stopping to fear what he might find.

He found nothing. Once again: nothing. He slammed a fist into the mattress in frustration. He felt so... so slow! The thief would have checked there first, before the owner could return and retrieve whatever secrets they had hidden away there. Maybe it would have been a clue. Maybe it would have provided some leverage. He would never know now. Not unless he risked waiting for the room's owner to return with his property. That was too much of a risk. He knew what he must do: find Fulcher and get him into the tunnels. Simple.

_Simple don't mean easy. ___

__The words echoed in his brain. Advice from the thief? A memory? He dragged himself away from the bed and sidled up to the door. A cautious look told him the corridor beyond was empty. Stepping lightly and quickly along the passage, he approached the next door. The room within was empty. He checked it. No clue, no leverage, no oubliette. He moved along, repeating the process at every door, until he reached the far end of the corridor. If a tunnel led here, he hadn't found it yet, but when even secret tunnels had secret doors leading to even more secret tunnels, what were the chances that he ever would. He listened at the door, then pushed it open._ _

____

XXXX

"We really need to talk about boundaries," gasped Rip, breaking away from Sara and turning to lean against the wall beside her.

"Says the guy who just had his tongue down my throat and his hands up my shirt?" Sara quipped, leaning side on against the wall to look at him. She folded her arms and waited, not least because she was more than a little breathless herself.

"It wasn't _my_ hands I was worried about ," Rip muttered, pausing for breath. Sara grinned and raised an unrepentant eyebrow at him. "One assumes a woman capable of taking down men twice her size and more is quite capable of making her discontent in a situation known. If you were uncomfortable with anything, I know damn well you would have let me know! I'm just doing likewise!" Both eyebrows went up and Sara's expression became inquisitive. He scowled. She was actually going to make him spell this out. Great. "We need... _I_ need us to slow down. I'm not... I can't... I... _Bloody hell_!"

Sara laughed. "You sound like you're about to tell me you're a virgin, which I _know_ is not the case."

"I was in _love_ with Miranda," he replied, dragging a hand across his eyes. "She was my _wife_. I..." A silence descended on the small room. Sara waited, amusement dimming to gentle patience. Rip closed his eyes and drew in a long, shaking breath. "I'm not like you, Sara. I can't separate physically wanting someone and emotionally wanting someone _quite_ so easily. Wanting to kiss them, hold them, be physically close to them, romantically close to them: that's one thing, that's easy. And I want you that close, believe me! Wanting to sleep with them: that's different. At least, it is for me. It's not just a... physical attraction... Or that _type_ of physical attraction... There first... there has to be more of... more of a history, a bond, a more... a more emotional attraction, for me. Deeper than just friendship or lust. Even a friendship with rather more romantic entanglements than most! And I'm not there yet. _We're_ not there yet. It... it doesn't happen until considerably further down that path. It might never... _I_ might never... I might never feel that way about anyone else."

Sara bit her lip and watched him through narrowed eyes. "Okay. So, since we're on the topic, just how much further down that path are we talking exactly? Marriage? Because if we're layin' cards on the table here..."

"My mother still thinks Jonas arrived five weeks early," said Rip, smiling at the memory. "Going by the date of the wedding, anyway: she's a little old fashioned. He was more like four weeks late! Miranda was insufferable! She couldn't sleep, barely ever stopped eating. Not meals, just silly things she would pick at constantly. If anyone had looked through the contents of our kitchen that last month, they would have thought we were planning the world's largest buffet! I didn't dare... leave her side."

Sara saw the happiness fade from the memory. It was like a light dimmed in his eyes.

"I don't think we ever did get round to telling him he was _technically_ in the wedding photo..."

"Hey," she said, drawing his face back round to hers. "I'll behave, I promise. Okay, so I want you, but you're right: it's just physical. I can tell the difference, and if I can control the bloodlust, I can control that. This thing between us isn't about what we want, it's about what we need. I need you near me. Holding me. Close to me. Talking to me. Listening to me. Here for me. That's more important than anything else we've been doing. And I'm here for you too. Whatever you need. Whether it's someone to remember with or someone to forget with. Or a bit of both."

"I'm sorry," he frowned, looking away. "I know this isn't what you signed up for."

"What I signed up for?" Sara laughed. "Rip, we're friends. Friends who occasionally make out, true, but friends all the same. That's not something you 'sign up for' like there's some kind of contract. Some list of expectations. Didn't we say that when we agreed to go down this road? No expectations? That means expectations of any kind. You don't have to apologise for being who you are. You definitely do _not_ have to apologise for not wanting to have sex with someone. Ever! For whatever reason!"

He nodded, but still wouldn't meet her eyes.

"And considering you grew up being brainwashed by people who didn't want you to have sex at all, it's hardly a surprise you're not the world's greatest at talking about it."

That, at least, got a slight laugh. "Well, I wouldn't say that, just not _actually_ fall in love - or have kids - and since the two are rather... inseparable for me..."

Sara reached out and turned his face back towards her. "We said we'd take things one day at a time, so let's do that. One day at a time, one step at a time. I know sometimes I may want more from you that you can give, but I promise I will not deliberately do anything I know you are uncomfortable with," she reached up and kissed his lips, then held his gaze again, serious and solemn. "And if I accidentally do something because I don't know, I _will_ be okay with you stopping me and telling me that, I swear. Also, I will never, _never_ , ask you to sleep with me until we _both_ want that emotionally, not just physically. Deal?"

Rip nodded, hesitant at first, then more sure. "Yes. Yes, I believe I can cope with that." He leant down and pressed a soft kiss to Sara's lips. "Thank you."


	43. A Time to Tease

"Welcome back, brother mine," grinned Luke Johnson, waiting with folded arms by the spare docking port while the Waverider jump ship disgorged its contents. "Why, you look like a Daniel come to judgement!" He swung past the captain and bowed low in his most charming impression of courtly manners to the other passenger to board the Endeavour. "Ah, the lovely Miss Lance! How do you _do_ my fair lady? Truth will out: you are even more beautiful than the last time I set eyes on you! Why, I do believe you are positively _glowing_! Truly, I bear a charmed life if you are in it. I believe I could wait forever and a day to catch a glimpse of such beauty again."

"Shut up, Luke," muttered Rip, leading the way past his foster brother to the bridge.

"Time cannot stale, nor custom mar..." Luke began, turning to stride in step with Rip, leaving Sara to follow with an increasingly bemused smile on her face.

"It's 'age cannot wither her, nor custom stale'!"

"You should know," smirked Luke.

"Shut up, Luke!" Rip sighed, walking ever onwards.

"Ah, but the course of true love never did run smoothly..."

"Smooth, not smoothly..."

"How's it running for you, old chap?"

"Shut _up_ , Luke!" Exasperation drove Rip's voice louder than he had intended. He stopped and turned to face Luke, glaring up at him and throwing a hand out towards the bridge. "Look if all you're going to do is act like we're back in the Refuge or the Academy, what was the point in asking us over here? I thought you wanted a mission report."

"I could have done that over the monitors," shrugged Luke, rocking back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pockets. "But, to tell truth and shame the devil, I thought it was high time we spoke face to face. This is much more fun."

Rip glowered and moved to turn back to the jump ship.

"Plus I didn't want to spill your little secret to all your little crew mates," breezed Luke. "Of course, discretion _is_ the better part of valour, I hear."

Rip froze. His eyes flicked up to Sara, several paces behind them. She was catching up with them slowly, an odd smile playing on her features. She caught his eyes, shrugged and smirked. "I told you..."

"Do _not_ finish that sentence!" Rip warned.

Sara caught up with them, she was grinning. "If I had a nickel for every time my older sibling teased me about a guy, or girl, I could afford not to live on a ship that makes its own money."

"Why, my lady," beamed Luke, honing in on one new piece of information. "An older sibling? How delightful! Sister? Brother? When can I oof!"

Sara's eyebrows shot up. Rip's elbow had apparently accidentally slipped backwards, catching Luke in the ribs with perhaps a little more force than was strictly necessary. The taller, older man was bent double, coughing, and Sara suddenly had an idea how a scrawny little kid might have been able to hold his own in scraps with the bigger, older boy he had unexpectedly had to share a room with growing up. The only marginally less scrawny grown man flashed an apologetic grin at her then turned and went on his way towards the bridge. Sara followed, pausing as she passed the still coughing Luke.

"Her name was Laurel."

XXXX

It was the right door. It was the right room.

Guillaume heard the faint rattle of chains as he entered the chamber. To all intents and purposes, the room looked just like any of the others. Neat bed with clean linen. Writing desk by the window. Long wooden kist along the length of one wall, below a plainly furnished mirror and beside a cabinet that displayed a triptych of the Holy Family between two candles. Covering the centre of the room, pinned down at one corner by the bed, lay an intricately patterned carpet. The ruse would not have fooled a babe in arms, and, with or without the thief, Guillaume was no babe. He rolled back the carpet, revealing a circular opening in the centre of the room, covered over with a wooden lid. In his mind's eye, Guillaume pictured the room beneath. So symmetrical. So ironic. A place of worship wrapped around a place of torment. The route to the oubliette was inside one of the largest pillars in the chapel below. He had called in echoing whispers, head suspended down the shaft, the name of Fulcher. Then, wonder of wonders, he had received an answer!

His weary fingers may have fumbled picking the lock on the lid more than once, but Guillaume had known enough to arm himself with enough rope to reach the captive in the oubliette's dark depths. The thought of being caught hauling the man from his prison should have made his heart beat like it was trying to escape his chest, yet Guillaume's hands, heart and head remained steady. A remnant of the thief, he mused. What other remnants might there yet be?

The captive appeared over the edge of the shaft, blinking in the light, poor as it was. Guillaume bent and lifted the old man to his feet. He was barely a bag of bones, unshaven and unkempt, foul-smelling and unwashed. His rescuer lowered him into a chair and hurried to make good the room. Together, rescued and rescuer fled through the secret tunnels, returning to the spot Guillaume had made ready for them. Food and water awaited them there, with borrowed robes to hide a bent old man in plain sight. He had bid his guest rest and refresh himself while returned to show his face where it was expected, then he had returned and led the much renewed Fulcher down through the tunnels to the old city at the foot of the mount. There were many doors out of the tunnels, not all of which had Guillaume been able to turn into doors back in. The door he had led Fulcher to was one such, but it led to a part of the city he knew well enough. He led the man through narrow, winding streets to the hospital, taking care to use the entrance Brother Antoine had shown him for the purpose, and on to Antoine's herbarium. The stone hut was empty of all but its herbs, tinctures and decoctions, and the few books Brother Antoine kept nearby for ease of reference. Guillaume guided Fulcher to a chair and left him, passing through the infirmary where Brother Antoine was making his rounds and leaving the old monk in full knowledge of what had passed.

Now Guillaume stood in the courtyard of the temple, halfway between the cellars and his cell. How he wished a remnant of the thief would resurface now. Before his stood a temple knight on guard, aiming a crossbow at his chest and ordering him to explain himself. Behind him, he knew, another stood in like attitude. He raised his hands and sighed. He was caught!

XXXX

"Captain Baxter! Our guests have arrived!" Luke's cheerful voice rang across the bridge of the Endeavour.

"This is your ship, Captain Johnson, not mine," Eve informed the room in general, her attention fixed on her current task. "I believe Miss Baxter is the most appropriate appellation now."

"And yet, every ship needs a captain of its own, while I have a whole fleet to manage," trilled back Luke, leading the way into his office at the opposite side of the bridge. At the door he stopped, ushering his guests through, and turned to Rip, whose face wore a mask of patient placidity. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. Luke saw the dubious suspicion underneath: the face that asked a question so clearly, he answered it. "What am I up to? No more than you charged me with, dear brother. But there was just you and I to begin with, and your own personal army of course, and her friends. Then Eve and Amelia show up. One more ship to defend the wreckage. Now while you've been off on your little recruitment drive, they've been off on theirs and I think you've rather lost count of how many recruits you've driven. Not all of them are here, of course. Some, as you've seen on your way over, stayed to help rebuild. Others went off out into the everlasting night to try and find more of our ilk. They succeeded. They still succeed. I'm not a Captain any longer, Michael, I'm a Commander! Yet I still feel the need to garner _your_ permission before I start _using_ the exalted epithet!"

Suspicion melted into confusion, reaching understanding only on Sara's features.

"Why would you need to ask _me_?" Rip blinked back. "I recruited you, true. I gave you the job, I agree, but that doesn't make me your boss! I simply pointed out there was a job needed doing and you were the best person for it! You don't take orders from me! I'm just done taking an order from you!"

"No, you're just done taking a _request_ from me," countered Luke, aware that not, not only was Sara watching him, but Eve also. "You and I both know that, had you refused that request in any way, for any reason, I would have taken it to another Captain of the Fleet."

"What are you saying?" Rip asked, his words, quiet as they were, filled the small, spartan room.

"I'm saying I'm not a Captain, I'm a Commander; but if I'm a Commander then you're an Admiral!"

Rip's frown deepened. He glanced down, then away, then all round the room. "Getting a little Star Fleet, aren't we?" Rip muttered, without looking back. He raised a finger towards Sara in warning. "Do _not_ tell Mister Palmer that I know what that means!"

"Michael, I might look like I'm running things here, but we both know I'm just working on your orders," supplied Luke, watching his foster brother with one arm propped against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. He said nothing when Rip, still avoiding locking eyes with the only other two people in the room, dropped himself down into the nearest chair. "The call has been made for you to be formally recognised as the new leader of the Time Masters."

"But I _destroyed_ the Time Masters! _We_ destroyed the Time Masters!" Rip exclaimed, waving a finger between himself and Sara. "Surely most of them want my head on a stake, not giving them orders! I wouldn't know where..."

"You already _have_ started," cut in Sara, walking over to him with folded arms and a slight smile. "You're rebuilding here. Running missions from wherever. You were the one who didn't think he could pull together enough people to face what the future holds. Now you're the one those people are calling out for to lead them. And they're gonna need you!"

"I'm not some great leader, Sara, I've told you thi..."

"I disagree!" Sara snapped, leaning back on the desk he was sitting by. "I don't know what's holding you back, Rip..."

"Yes, you do..."

"Don't! Don't hide behind excuses and self-pity! Don't do that. You have your flaws: who doesn't? Your mind is ten steps ahead of anyone else's in this business, certainly ahead of any of our crew. You know the rules, and you know which ones can be broken and when. You know more about time travel than Ray and Stein combined, and that's even taking into account all the stuff they've learned since you signed us up! And you know what's coming, at least partly, which is more than anyone else around here!"

"What's coming?" Luke frowned.

"Once the new Oculus is up and running that will _hardly_ be an issue!" Rip countered, leaning back in the chair and letting his head flop back to look at the ceiling. "I'm not the man they..."

"What is coming?" Luke repeated, this time a little louder.

"You're the man who saw the rot at the heart of things and tore it all down!"

"I'm the man who led a bunch of strangers to kill _their_ friends!"

"Michael!"

The arguing couple looked over to Luke, who was now standing, both fists planted firmly on the desk, glaring at them. The opposite side of the desk, Rip noticed.

"Did I steal your chair?"

"Hardly what I am interested in right now, brother mine!"

Rip sat up and leant forward onto the desk, his fingers tapping at the clear glass top. "Ah."

"Well?"

"When I was a prisoner of the Time Masters," he began, then paused, his eyes flickering. The story was out of date. It had to change. He began again. "The first time I was a prisoner of the Time Masters, they showed me what the Oculus showed them. I saw many things, past, present and future, but all in a future where the immortal tyrant Vandal Savage had conquered the world and... And was leading it in a war against a vicious alien onslaught. They told me that without him to lead them, Earth's defences would fail and we would lose. The planet would be conquered and humanity wiped out of existence, with only a few fleeing vessels surviving a mass exodus and heading out into space in search of a new home."

Luke straightened. His face dropping from frustration into thought. "Ah."

Rip leant back in the Captain's chair and tugged at his chin with one hand. "Quite."

"Yeah, there's no way you're getting out of being leader now, mate!"

Rip's eyes rolled skywards. He opened his mouth to reply and froze, his face contorting into a frown. Sara looked at him with a question in her eyes. Rip's eyes flicked up then back to her in silent answer, a finger gliding up to his ear. The room stilled, its three occupants all turning their full attention to their hearing. Faintly, very faintly, a scraping could be heard from above. They listened. The air grew thick with a heavy silence, hanging over them like some invisible sword of Damocles. Then they heard it. A clunk. Loud enough to reverberate through the ship. The sound of metal affixing itself to metal. But there was no work being done on the outside of the Endeavour, and no ship would simply land on the hull unannounced. No friendly ship anyway.

Without taking his eyes off the ceiling, Rip spoke. "Darling, did you bring your batons?"

"She needs weapons?" Luke cut in, his eyes dropping to Rip and his hand pointing to Sara.

"Did you just call me 'darling'?" Sara frowned down at him, the shock sufficient to drag her gaze away from the sounds of their visitors.

Rip looked over to her, catching her eyes. "Should I not?"

Sara tipped her head to the side and considered this. "No, it's okay. From you it... It kinda works. I just... I wasn't expecting it."

"Again: this woman needs weapons?" Luke persisted. This time he got an answer.

"Well, I can't deflect laser blasts with my bare hands!" Sara looked his way for barely as long as it took to answer him, then turned back to Rip. "No, lover, but I do have my knives."

"Lover?" Rip raised an eyebrow.

"You started it," smirked Sara, leaning back against the metal wall.

Rip's authoritarian glower melted into a grin. "Fair point."

"She has knives?" Luke marvelled, looking from Rip to Sara and back again. "Where?"

Rip's grin broadened. "Telling you that, _brother mine_ , would rather spoil the surprise."


	44. A Time to Conquer

Winter drew in around Jerusalem, the hours of night lengthening and of day shortening in response. The community of Temple Mount slept longer and better for it, but for those whose knightly duty it was to watch over the sleepers. Even such as those gained the relief of being excused daily toil while their rotation lasted, and the relief of being excused all such cold labour for a full months once their week on duty was done. All but one.

The Templars did not take well to their rules being broken.

Guillaume had been invested with a chain mail hauberk and white tabard, its blood-red cross blackened and burnished alternately by the darkness and the fiery torchlight of his new duties. He was a full year in the care of the Templars now and, had not the escape of Fulcher been discovered more than a day later, would have been a lifetime in that selfsame oubliette. What favour he may have had with André was gone. All contact he may have had with Odo or Astralabe was cut. He walked the walls at night: a dangerous task in daylight, but even more so when one might not see an enemy bowman nearby. Ever while he walked was there eyes on him. No less than three bowmen within the walls were ordered to fire upon him should he make any move to vault the precipice. At dawn he was martially escorted to prime and thence to his cell, where nevermore did the small spare chamber suit such a name. Such had been his life since the morn of his capture. Such would be his life ever after if he could not find some means to break away.

The first gleam of freedom rose with dawn on the feast of Christ the King, the second to last Sunday in November. As Guillaume turned to greet the coming day, a new-trained bowman tasked with watching him mistook his actions and let fly. With aim as faulty as the aimer's judgement, the bolt landed full on the metal of the hauberk, its point lodging in the steel rings. The force of its flight flung the prisoner against the stone of the wall, gashing his head on the parapet and rendering him unconscious. When he awoke, it was to blessed daylight in the halls of the small Templar infirmary, and the cursed heat of fever.

XXXX

"Gene, lock down doors to anyone bar myself, Captain Baxter, Captain Hunter and Miss Lance!" Luke called up to his ship's artificial consciousness.

"Doors are locked down," reported a pleasant, feminine American voice.

"That should slow them at least," he muttered, leading the way back onto the bridge. "Captain Baxter, what have you?"

"Sensors are only detecting one vessel, currently attached to the upper part of the Endeavour's hull," replied Eve, busily recalibrating something at a console. "They did not, however, pick that one up until it breached our shields."

The Commander of the Fleet sighed. "Seems like our enemies have learned a new trick!"

"I fear they may have learned it from your friends," murmured Rip, peering down at another console.

"Luke, you know your ship best," said Sara, eyes and ears scanning for signs of movement. "Where will they get in? What way are they coming?"

"Rather a defeatist attitude, Miss Lance!" Luke jested. "I like to think they won't get in at all!"

"Then why did you lock down all the doors?" Rip and Sara chorused.

The ship shuddered, the scream of tearing metal reverberating through the bridge. Luke pulled up an image of the Endeavour on the holographic projector and pointed to a shape marked out in red. "This is where they are." He dropped his hand. "However, I cannot tell from this where they are trying to come in." Another scream. Another shudder. "Coming in, I believe that should be."

Rip zoomed in on the projection as Eve joined them at the holotable. He pointed to a corridor below the red patch on the hull. "They'll come in to here: there's a shaft from the top of this corridor here to just below the inner layer of the upper hull where there ship is. If they were to try and open a hole straight through the hull without another ship there on top of them, the depressurisation would blow them back into space. They've done what we did: created a seal between one of the cargo bay doors and our hull. The only difference is, we had the decency to match door to door so we didn't leave a gaping great big hole in their side. They aren't being quite as courteous. What is that shaft? Air? Cables? Water?"

"Cables," replied Eve and Luke together. Eve tapped part of the hologram and highlighted lines of circuitry running through the ship. "It's the main conduit for the ship-wide communication circuitry. It's like the central nervous system of the ship."

"Well that's never good!" Rip muttered under his breath. Another scream of metal shook the ship. "How long until they're through, Gene?"

"I estimate the intruders will board the ship in fifty-three point seven seconds," breathed the calm voice of the AI.

"Send a distress signal with all data to the Waverider, Gene. Tell them to remain cloaked and scan for other cloaked vessels if they can."

"They can if they make the modifications I just made to our sensors," added Eve. "Make sure they know that Gene, and the modifications to make."

"And tell Ray to get ready for another space walk," put in Sara. "If he can quietly disable their ship, it'll make them less likely to try blowing us up like they did the Acheron."

"Anyone mind if _I_ give my AI some instructions?" Luke shrugged, looking meaningfully at Rip.

"Sorry, your ship," admitted Rip, stepping away from the hologram with hands raised. "Go ahead."

"You know, I think you've almost covered everything!"

"Almost?"

Luke grinned at his foster brother, then looked up. "Gene, is that all done?"

"Completed, Captain Johnson."

"Good. Take the night off, Gene."

The ship dropped into darkness, engines slipping into silence with a sigh. Nobody moved.

When Luke spoke, you could hear the grin in his voice. "How's your night vision, Miss Lance?"

"Oh please," smiled Sara, from right behind his right shoulder, "you don't really think I need to see to aim, do you?"

The sharp intake of breath from his brother was enough to bring a sly smile to Rip's face, unseen in the darkness. He had neither seen nor heard Sara move, but he had been on the receiving end of the trick so often it was nice to hear someone else jump for a change. A final roaring screech of rending metal echoed through the bridge.

"They're in," breathed Luke.

"And we're stuck in here," murmured Rip. "Sara and I are armed. Are you?"

"In this job?" Luke replied with a low laugh. "Always!"

"Eve?" Sara asked.

"The same," she affirmed.

"So _Commander_ ," whispered Rip, moving around the holotable to join the others. "Your ship, your call. What's the plan?"

XXXX

A strange and unfamiliar face gazed down at Guillaume when he next awoke. In blank confusion he shifted his gaze from the ceiling above him to the habit of the monk who tended him. Here was a Hospitaller in a Templar hospital.

"Pax vobiscum, brother, be at peace," murmured the monk, his soft, young voice soothing and calm. "I am Brother Paul. I have been sent for by my brethren here to tend your wounds and your illness. Brother, you have laboured long in a fever of the direst aspect, and have oft been despaired of these past five days. Fear not: the fever has broken and your strength is returning. My master, Brother Antoine, has ordered me not to allow a return to duty for at least another week, whereupon, he believes, you shall not long be troubled by your present cares." The young apprentice cast a wary eye about him, then reached into the folds of his habit, handing a folded paper to Guillaume. "He bid me give you this note, written in your own hand some twelvemonth since, and warn you to let no man's eye fall on it but we three. He tasked me to tend you well, keep secret aught that you may tell me, and do aught that you may bid me, within the bounds of my own conscience."

Guillaume studied Paul's face and took the note. Opening it, he saw again the fine paper and finer writing that bore the marks of his own familiar penmanship. A hand raised involuntarily to his neck. The leather thong that bound the pouch of his tales was gone, the pouch and papers too. Panic must have flown across his face, for Paul's hands immediately raised in a stilling gesture. Once again, the young monk sent a hand questing into his habit, this time drawing out pouch and thong and all.

"Brother Antoine warned me not to let this be found by any hand but mine, and that it, like the letter, should remain a confidence of our poor trinity. Come, what would you? There is water by to slake your thirst, and broth to fill an empty stomach."

Guillaume sat up, taking the pouch and nodding at the water jug. Paul passed him a cup and he drank greedily, draining it in one draught and handing it back for more. "Brother, I feel that I have swallowed a desert!"

When enough water had washed the drought of fever from his mouth, Guillaume turned to the young man. "Do you know what it is you have kept safe for me? How much did my friend, Antoine, tell you?"

"Only that he owes to you a great debt of love and friendship, more that he may ever be able to repay, and that I should trust you above my anointed brethren in this place."

"The latter I own true enough, for even I cannot tell if all friends now be turned to foes here, and I dare not risk finding out. The former, I would consider paid in full if you would help me to my cell and from thence to the cellars of this place. It is cool down there, even in the midst of summer, and perhaps it would prevent the return of my fever."

Paul nodded, drawing a hand across his barely bearded chin in consideration of all. "Tell me what it is that you wish from your room and I will bring it. I cannot claim use of the cellar for the housing of a sick man, and were I to say you were whole once more they would surely remove me from your use. Therefore, use me. I shall go to your cell on pretext of retrieving fresh garments for your use, and shall bundle up within all that you may bid me bring you. Once here, both items and owner reunited, we may hazard how to remove both from the captor's gaze."

"Any disappearance would throw suspicion on you and your master," Guillaume shook his head, recalling the words written in the note. "No, better yet that you are long gone from this place before I dare leave. Bid them cloister me in my cell, a guard at all times on the door, not to be seen but by that guard twice a day with food and water. Warn them that any lengthy time upright, with head raised above heart, may bring on a return of my malady and require your renewed attention. They will see no harm in such a course, and no thought of blame could ever touch you when I make good my escape."

"From a locked and guarded cell? No man could do so!"

"Today is Friday, is it not? I will be gone by nones of Monday, with no trace of how. I believe such a wonder has been done before and in fewer days at that."

XXXX

The bridge of the Endeavour was not like the bridge of the Waverider. It was at the top of the time ship, being reached by a corridor on one side and a lift on the other. The Endeavour was larger than the Waverider too, with five levels instead of three. It was capable of transporting a small army of troops. Unfortunately, it wasn't doing so at the moment.

Behind consoles and the holotable, Rip, Sara, Luke and Eve waited in silence. It was a silence broken by the sounds of the intruders making their way through door after door, growing ever closer.

"They certainly seem to know their way around," murmured Rip, braced against the holotable.

"I'm sure any pirate knows which end of a ship is the pointy one, Michael!" Luke growled quietly by his side. "What are you trying to say?"

"Only that I hope Doctor Palmer works his magic fast," breathed his brother, "because I think we're going to need our cavalry considerably sooner than we had hoped."

"Ray'll come through," affirmed Sara from her post behind a navigation console. Her eyes had grown used to the low light and she could just make out the lines of Rip's face. His eyes were on her, the faint blue light from his gun reflecting in them. If he couldn't see hers, barely illuminated by the distant stars shining in the bridge windows, he was making a great guess for where they were. They crouched there, hidden, watching each other, unable to look away, just in case it was the last look their eyes ever had.

Then the door exploded.

Light may not be necessary for aiming a knife, but when your ears are ringing from a nearby explosion it suddenly becomes much more helpful. The flames still leaping from the twisted innards of the demolished door helped. Three invaders went down before they crossed the threshold. Then the shooting started, blue laser fire zipping across the expanse of the bridge. For a moment, the onslaught halted in its progress, the pirates taking cover behind debris under the hail of three laser guns, two of which seemed to be in competition. Light blossomed at the mouth of the corridor and the advance began again. Sara heard Rip swear and mention something about shielding. Certainly the laser blasts seemed to be bouncing off the cocoon of light surrounding their enemies.

Another explosion sounded far above, rocking the Endeavour and scattering the group behind the shield. Sara pounced. If they could pass through the wall of light, so could she. Kicking, blocking, punching and slashing, a knife in either hand, she fought her way to the woman with the shield generator. It was a tiny thing, projecting the whole barrier from a wristband device that could have passed for a watch. Her hand came down on it edge first, shattering both band and barrier, and drawing a scream of pain from its wearer. Even in the barely lit darkness, she could tell who she was fighting. The shape and voice matched the one she had heard so long ago. The Time Temptress. She still hated the name, but it was stuck now and there was no way out of it. She spun round on her heel, letting the momentum carry her, first jabbing backwards with the elbow of one arm, then following round with the fist of the other and a sidekick that sent her opponent into the opposite wall, spitting curses. The others had joined her in the melee by now, still firing but fighting too.

Sara blocked a high blow from one of the minions and jabbed upward with the heel of her hand aimed at his chin, kicking out at kneecap level as he fell back, making sure he stayed down for now. Another fist swung her way. She dodged and taught its owner a lesson about momentum and centres of balance. The shape of her nemesis rose again from the wall, gun levelling in her direction. Sara's right foot swung round to remove it; her left, following the flow of her turn, shot back to catch the woman's solar plexus, throwing her back again; coming full circle, she kicked up with her right, hitting the other woman full under the chin and cracking her head against the wall. Her opponent slumped to the ground, wholly unconscious. Nodding, Sara backed away. An arm wrapped around her neck, another pinning her arms to her sides and lifting her off her feet. She kicked backwards, but the arms around her throat and ribs tightened. Dots of light flashed in her vision. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. The darkness was swallowing her.

The floor rose up to Sara with a crash, air flooding back to her lungs. Pain bloomed in her side. A rib, surely. Light rose like the dawn and the sounds of battle fell to quiet groans and laboured breathing. Hands gripped her shoulders and she winced. Jabbing up and back with one forearm, Sara felt a hand leave her shoulder and wrap around her wrist, raising it to a pair of familiar lips. Rip. They had won. She closed her eyes and sank into his arms with a sigh.

The battle within Rip had consumed his attention far more than the battle raging around him. To keep control. To stay focused. To ignore the flashes of memory that still stirred up terror within him. Sara was by his side now. Luke and Eve too. He was not alone. He was not helpless. He caught the movements of Sara fighting from the corner of his eye. Graceful. Flowing. Beautiful. Deadly. She had no more knives left, no weapons, but she didn't need them. She was a weapon. Sara was stronger than him. Better than him. She was wiping the floor with everyone around her. 

Then she wasn't.

It cost him a punch on the jaw and a kick in the ribs once he was down, but the shot brought down the behemoth that had her in his lethal embrace. The sounds of the long awaited cavalry arriving were enough to shake the last invading pirates. Those that were still conscious reached for their wrists and vanished. Rip looked over to where Sara was dragging herself out from under the fallen giant and saw her gasp in pain, a hand darting to her side. He was on his feet and there in an instant, reaching out for her. An arm darted out in defence but he was ready for it. He caught her wrist and kissed it, well aware of the voices heralding the approach of the rest of the team and more than aware of how little time they had before kissing was no longer an option. At least for now. Rip felt her relax against him and swept her up, cradling her in his arms.

"Luke, medical bay," he demanded, looking round for his foster brother.

"Follow me," answered a bruised and bloodied form that suggested the captain of the Endeavour was more than a little in need of his medical facilities himself. Nevertheless, he turned, leading Rip through the hurrying huddle of helpers appearing in the former doorway.

"Did we miss all the fun?" Mick grumbled, lowering his gun. "What's up with Blondie?"

"Precisely what I am on my way to find out Mister Rory," replied Rip, pausing as he reached the group. "If you would be so good as to help Captain Baxter find these uninvited guests a cell for the night. Oh, and Doctor Palmer, there appears to be some sort of transportation device attached to their wrists. Please find some way of removing or disabling them before our guests awaken. It would be nice to have a chat with them before they leave us. One in particular I think you might recognise, now do excuse me."

Mick, Ray, Rex, Amaya and Jesse turned to watch their captain disappear, then turned back to look at the mess they had left behind.

"Well," mused Mick, surveying the fallen, "seems you folks had quite the party. Hey look, Haircut! Your girlfriend's here too!"


	45. A Time to Concede

The pirate's ship had been immobilised well beyond any easy fix, and its remaining crew were nowhere to be found. Even those that Ray had reported still on the vessel when he enacted his sabotage were gone. That left the remaining invaders stranded. The size of the Endeavour leant itself to the holding of a large number of prisoners, but its near stationary situation at the Vanishing Point had felt a little too much like putting all their eggs into one basket. Once any and all personal transport devices had been safely removed, and some given into the curious care of Doctor Palmer, Captains Hunter and Johnson divided the prisoners up between the fleet. Of course, it was only to be expected that one very particular prisoner found her way to the brig of the Waverider.

"What exactly are you expecting to gain from this, sweetie?" The low, melodious, mocking voice of the Time Temptress seemed the very sound of a smirk in Sara's ears. "I've faced worse torturers than you, dear, and they never got a scrap from me."

Sara watched her, her face impassive and stony, just as her training had taught her. She had nothing to say and no inclination to rise to the prisoner's derisive jabs.

"Oh, that's right," continued the Time Temptress, turning away and trailing her fingers along the clear walls as she circumnavigated her cell. "You're the good guys. You don't kill prisoners. Not when they're not trying to kill you, anyway. Probably don't torture them either, do you dear? Not with anything sharper than boredom anyway."

"Sara?" Rip called out, walking through the still opening door, coat tails flying. They caught up with him, swirling around his ankles, when he stopped dead just inside the doorway. He looked from Sara to their prisoner and back again. He could see the assassin on guard, held in check like a lioness stalking her prey. "We've got something."

"Ooh, the man of the hour," grinned the Temptress, shimmying over to Rip's side of the brig with glee. "And aren't you just! Hail the conquering hero! I really have heard _so_ much about you! And what _are_ your plans for me, Captain? I'm sure I could make a few plans for _you_! I know my employer has some. Not that I'll be telling you what they are, of course. Wouldn't dare spoil the surprise!"

"Oh, you have an employer then," breezed Rip, exuding nonchalance like a disdainful house cat. "Thanks for that."

"Oh, my employer's just itching to meet _you_ , my dear Captain," she crowed, running her eyes over him in a way that made Sara at once tense and understand how Ray was so easily taken in. "And we will have such fun with you when that day comes."

Rip's eyes had never left Sara since entering the brig; now he swung round to face his foe, cold ire burning in him. "Then why doesn't he just show up and face me? Or is he just the kind of coward who likes to send his minions to do his fighting for him?"

The Time Temptress' voice dropped low again and she pressed herself so close to the glass she was almost nose to nose with him. "Oh, I'm nobody's minion, sweetheart. But don't fret. You'll meet my employer. All in good time, as they say. Then you'll be stuck in here and I'll be the one running this little skiff."

The lights turned red and whatever was said next was inaudible. Rip felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face Sara, by his side.

"I think she might have upset Gideon a little with that last dig," she smirked, threading her arm through his and leading him out of the brig. "Come on, conquering hero. Show me what you got. That one's going nowhere!"

"Perhaps you're forgetting our general track record with keeping people locked up on this ship?" Rip quipped, letting the doors slide shut behind him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, content to stroll arm in arm while they were alone.

"Where are we going?" Sara murmured, her head tipping to one side when it dawned on her they were not headed for the bridge.

"Doctor Palmer's laboratory," answered Rip, pausing and turning to her. His free arm reached up, fingers caressing the bruises on her throat.

"I'm fine," she assured him, her eyes closing automatically. "You can kiss it better later. Believe me: I've had worse."

"Oh? Do I get to kiss those better too?" Rip joked, his hand dropping to hers and lifting it to his lips. "I'm sure the others wouldn't miss us for a few minutes."

"I'm fine," Sara repeated, letting their fingers tangle as he lowered her hand again. "If we always take longer than they expect to get somewhere, somebody in the team is gonna figure out something's going on between us."

"Why? They already think we argue over every little thing! They just ascribe any delay to that cause and ignore it!"

"We don't argue over ' _every_ little thing'!"

"To be fair, we're not far off..."

"And not every member of the team is gonna keep buying that, not in the long haul..."

"Long... haul?" Rip froze, suddenly cautious.

"I mean, if there is a long haul," blinked Sara, backpedalling fast. "We said we didn't know how long this would last. If it stays a short term thing, fine, but if it doesn't we are much more likely to get caught out by not considering the possibility that some of our team actually have decent observation skills! We need to be more careful. When we took the time out for Jesse's quarantine to pass, everyone but Jax pretty much kept to their own areas except for meal times, and Jax didn't even budge from the medbay for _those_ for the full week! Now we're back on missions, fighting again, _everyone_ is going to be moving about more, on their guard more; more observant, more vigilant. I'm not assuming this is gonna last forever, but I'm not assuming it's gonna end tomorrow either. I don't want it to end tomorrow: do you?"

Rip watched her. He always watched her now. Whenever she was in the same room as him, his eyes sought her out. He blinked slowly and shook his head. "No, I don't want this to end tomorrow. Nowhere near."

"Then we need to start being more careful," she dictated, a warrior giving orders. "Otherwise somebody's gonna work it out, Mick or Amaya is gonna find out, and then the proverbial hits the air vent!"

"Never a good thing in an enclosed space," he quipped, looking up and down the corridor in thought.

"I'm serious Rip!" Sara insisted, tugging him back round to look at her. "If we..."

Rip's hands closed around her face and his lips on hers. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, his fingers sliding deeper into her hair. She was just relaxing into the kiss when he pulled back, turned and headed off down the corridor. "I'll be more careful. Promise."

Sara let out a sigh and shook her head. "You can't win every argument that way!"

The answer echoed back to her along the metal corridor. "Worked so far!"

XXXX

Guillaume opened his eyes and groaned. The noise was deafening. Light slowly, gradually, one pinprick at a time, faded into his vision. If only the noise had done the same! It was a thunderous calamity of raucous voices, hammering against his eardrums. He raised his hands to shield them, hands that were holding things. What things? A bag in one, a knife in the other. An urgent pressure built in his stomach. Head swimming, gorge heaving, Guillaume threw himself onto his side and threw up the remnants of his last meal.

When the world had slowed down sufficiently to come into focus, he pushed himself up into a seated position and began to take note of his surroundings. He was swathed in the shadows of a stone-clad alley. Stone beneath him, stone on either side of him; and not the warm stone of Jerusalem or Acre. This stone was grey and chill - as cold as the night sky above him. It was true then. Everything he had written to himself in the note was true. His stories, hid safe against his breast on their leather thong, were real. They were his memories, locked away in his mind where they were now no more than fanciful dreams. But they would come back. The note said so. Piece by piece, he would regain them, and piece by piece he would lose them once more, like a wave cresting the shore then ebbing back into the sea. And one day he would be rescued, restored to his rightful self. By a man he had known in the future and met in the past; a man he would meet twice more before his rescue, but who would meet him first at the second encounter, not the third. Guillaume's mind whirled. Somewhere in there, it all made sense. He just needed to think. To focus. To remember. Somewhere in his memories were the clues to guide him. To pick out the time traveller who would prove his salvation. Until then, the note had provided him with one strict instruction and suggestions on how to achieve it.

Survive.

Words familiar yet not began to filter through the din to his ears. Beyond the scent of his own vomit, the taint of stale ale and fresh urine poisoned the atmosphere of the alley. The rolling cadence of a small group of merry voices drew nigh. Shadows broached the end of his alley, filling it with a burst of laughter. The shadows halted. The laughter dropped away to whispering.

From the heart of the darkness a voice hailed him. "What ho, man! Speak if thou dost live! Art thou drunken tinker or a slumbering lord?"

Guillaume drew a sleeve across his mouth remembering the note and the advice it had given. "Neither, but a poor pilgrim returned from the Holy Land. I fear the journey has not agreed with me."

The central shadow drew near. "A pilgrim, forsooth? Lying here? Knoweth thou what day it is?"

"My journey hath been long and difficult," replied Guillaume, sticking to his suggested cover and feeling the shape of unfamiliar words form themselves in his mouth. The note had said that too: whatever language might surround him, something in his mind would listen and translate for him. "I fear I do not even know the year!"

A jovial hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Why man! 'Tis Christmas! The new year draws nigh, but not so close as all that, for 'tis still the year of Our Lord fifteen ninety six."

Guillaume's head reeled and he gripped the man's arm for support.

"What ails thee, pilgrim?"

Guillaume thought fast. "I merely balk at the time I have lost."

"Why, what day dost thou last remember, friend?"

"Of the day itself I cannot recall; but I know 'twas the first of December, not the twenty fifth."

A cool hand touched Guillaume's brow. "Come John, come Henry: help me raise our new found friend to his feet. He burns with fever and I fear he has long been ill with all. Speak, pilgrim, and tell: what name hast thou, and of what town a son."

The remaining shadows hurried around Guillaume, lifting him to his feet and supporting him. The first of the men, as yet unnamed, lifted the small sack of belongings Guillaume had dropped in reaching for his arm. Guillaume's eyes fixed on the bag. "That is all I have in this world, my friend. Naught of great worth and little of ought else."

"And I will bear it faithfully for thee, 'til thou canst take it up again thyself. Thy name, sir, and whither we may bear thee?"

Guillaume's mind flew to the note again. "My name is William. No lodging have I but the bare stones from which thou didst raise me."

The stranger laughed. "William thou art? Why, brother, so am I! To Bishopsgate, and there I'll see thee lie."

XXXX

"What's the big story, Ray?" Sara called, sauntering into the lab a good few paces behind Rip, whom she had doggedly refused to catch up with. "You reverse the polarity on those things and steal the Holy Grail by accident?"

"Anyone on this team steals the Holy Grail it'll be me, and you can bet your ass it won't be by accident!" Mick rumbled from the corner. Ray dropped his head to one side and threw the rogue a look. Mick grinned, waggled his eyebrows and took a swig of beer.

"Frankly, I'm amazed you and your late partner did not manage it within weeks of boarding this vessel," muttered Stein wrapping his arms around him and rolling his eyes.

"It was on his to do list but we got a little... distracted," shrugged Mick, taking another swig. "Tried taking it down later but I ain't got Snart's smarts. You know you _can_ say his name, Professor: he's not some evil, undead wizard!"

"So that's where my collection went!" Ray complained. "Dude! They were signed!"

"Still are," breezed Mick.

Rip sighed. "Doctor Palmer, if we could get back on track..."

"Sorry, Captain," murmured Ray. "Anyway: these are the wristbands I removed from the Time Pirates. I disabled them easily enough: I just put them in a Faraday cage until I found the off button. I think I've worked out most of the functions now but the really interesting thing is this: whenever I switch them on they start emitting some sort of signal, like a homing signal. I think it might be where the others transported to when they heard us coming."

"And you can trace it?" Sara asked.

"Already have," grinned Ray.

"Is it the space station again?" Rip wondered aloud, praying he would never have to return there.

"Doesn't look like," Ray shook his head. "I mean the signal moves through time and space all right, but not in the same way as the one we followed from the destruction of the Acheron."

"So it could be another station or base," hazarded Sara, "or just another route to the one we already know?"

"Technically, yes," nodded Ray, raising a finger, "but: the readings I got back on the trail to the space station look nothing like the ones I'm picking up here. If I were to guess, I'd say we're headed for a planet. Which one, or when, though, I have absolutely no idea!"

"Uncharted territory," grinned Sara. "Where all the best secret hideouts are found!"


	46. A Time to Rhyme

Guillaume awoke beneath a rough woollen blanket that did little to keep the chill from his bones. Head and hand met halfway as he pushed himself upward. There was no dizziness, no ache, no surging feeling in his stomach. He brushed the sleep from his eyes and shook his head.

"Where am I?"

An answer, unexpected, from what Guillaume had thought was an empty room, cut through the morning quietude, bringing the traveller's head round to the speaker with the speed and accuracy an owl uses on a careless mouse.

"Thou art here, in Bishopsgate, without the City of London; in my lodgings in Crosby Street at the sign of the Boar's Head, and in my bed. Art thou now answered?"

"London," Guillaume muttered, the scattered memories of the night before fighting for prominence in his mind. "London, England. Christmas day, fifteen ninety six."

"So it is," nodded his host.

"I am William, and so are you," confirmed Guillaume.

"So we are," nodded his host again. "My comrades and I brought thee hither from whence we found thee, in Shoreditch."

"Shoreditch?"

"Where we were celebrating the birth of Our Lord and Saviour. We had begun such with holy mass at midnight in the Church of Saint Leonard, and from thence continued our revels in the nearby taverns. It was upon leaving the last of these that we came across thy good self, reclining upon the piss-laden cobbles of two noisome alehouses."

"Saint Leonard?"

"The name is familiar?"

Guillaume nodded. "Yet for a sinner, not a saint."

"All men are both, in equal measure," grinned William, seating himself on a wooden stool by the bed. "We choose which face the world sees, and rarely does it tell the full tale of our existence."

"And what is yours?"

"How say you, friend?"

"Your tale," explained Guillaume, turning to swing long legs out of the bed and face his host. "Your name I know, but it says naught of who you are. If a name told all, we two would be twins."

"Yet, twin-like, I could ask the same of you."

The two men regarded each other in curious silence: the one wondering what story he was to tell; the other pondering what tale he might pen. It was the latter who spoke first.

"I am a humble wordsmith, sir: poet and playwright, and player too when it serves."

"I am a man of many trades and none," decided Guillaume. "Put me to work and you'll not find me wanting. I am strong, or I was, and not unused to manual labour."

"Can you read?"

"In any language you care to write."

"Indeed? Your education is something finer, then, than you could purchase in a pilgrim's weary life."

"My life has been my education," shrugged Guillaume, not entirely untruthfully. "Come: put me to the test. What would you have me read?"

His host eyed him a moment, then reached for a scroll. He unrolled it and turned it to his guest, but it was not on the curling cursive coils of words that his finger fell: it was upon the seal.

Guillaume squinted down at the rolling ribbon of Latin words. "Lord, direct us."

"Know you what this is?"

Guillaume shook his head.

"'Tis the seal of the City of London. This scroll gives my players and I leave to perform therein for this coming twelvemonth."

"I have never seen it before in my life," Guillaume assured him, utterly honest for once.

William nodded. "Good enough. Can you learn a role and play it as if it were truly your own self?"

"Indeed, I do so every day!"

"In truth?" William frowned.

Guillaume waved a hand. "My memory fails me. If a man cannot recall his own self, what else must he do but play the part he is presented with?"

William sucked air in through his teeth. "A poor memory makes an ill player."

"It is the past alone that eludes me."

"Mayhap we can use you then," he nodded, tugging at his short beard. "What say you?"

"I will be guided by you, sir, of course," nodded Guillaume. "I have little else to repay you with. What few things I have are of paltry worth, and yet I trust they are safe in your care?"

"They are," William assured him, "and such strange things they are indeed. I pray you will forgive the intrusion, for I am a curious man, i'faith. I seek in others the inspiration for all my creations, sinner or saint."

Guillaume looked around and saw his sack resting on a paper strewn table. "It is all there?"

His host rose and held out an arm to the desk. "See for yourself, William. I am no thief."

Guillaume approached the table, his hands eagerly closing on the open mouth of the sack. Once he had satisfied himself that its contents were intact, he reached for the purse and knife that lay nearby, fastening them to his belt with practised ease. Behind him, William watched and wondered.

"I cannot keep calling you 'William' or 'sir'," said William, drawing near and moving the scattered papers around idly. "You have no trade, and you say you have no home. What then should I call you? Have you no family name by which you are known? What was your father's name?"

"I have no other name," Guillaume replied, frowning and shaking his head. "Not that I remember. And I do not believe I would use my father's if I knew it. The word itself merely conjures up in me a feeling of disgust, and the memory of an old, fat man who lacked the courage and wits to be a good thief, but was happy to let another do his thieving for him."

A hand landed on Guillaume's shoulder. "We cannot choose our parentage, William. Tell me of him and, if you wish it, I will write him in a character that will ridicule his soul before the masses."

"I would not have his memory taint your opinion of me. And who knows when I may need to bargain such a tale for another night's board!"

William chuckled. "Thou art a sly one, William of no place, no trade and no name. Sly thou art and sly I'll name thee. Why 'twas one of the first names I e'er gave a character of mine that graced the London stage."

"What would you call me, sir?" Guillaume frowned, still working out the unfamiliar syntax.

"A Christian pilgrim you did come to me, and now I'll christen you anew. Arise, William Sly, and give me your friendship's hand. You'll pay me well in tales, or I'm a fool."

"Be my guide and friend in this strange city, and I will tell thee tales to fill thy mind. Thy purse will follow. Give me your good hand, and give me your name. To whom must Sly bow?"

William smiled and shook the other's hand warmly. "Both guide and friend I'll be to keep you here and be my muse. My name is Will Shakespeare."

XXXX

"Are you sure about this, Ray?" Jax ventured, casting his eyes about him in search of some kind of sign they were on the right track. The canyon walls rose up on either side of them and the angle of the sun threw shadows everywhere. In a thousand years or so those walls would be filling with tombs and traps enshrining the dead kings and queens of one of history's most famous ancient civilisations. For now, that civilisation, in its infancy, was confined to scattered groups of farmers along the edge of the great river and its flood plains.

"Do you doubt me?" Ray grinned, waving his tracking device from side to side.

"Nah, man, but Grey's gettin' antsy about somethin' over there."

"I do not get 'antsy', Jefferson," complained Stein immediately. "I am merely cautious, as any good scientist should be."

"Whatever dude," laughed Jax. "I'll remember that next time you get 'cautious' about needles!"

"A dislike of needles is perfectly logical when one is unfamiliar with the contents or the hands wielding them!"

"An irrational fear is nothing to be ashamed of, Professor," commented Rex. "I believe it is a conditioned response caused by some encounter in our youth that makes such an impression on the mind that the fear remains into adulthood while the memory of the encounter does not."

"I am not being irrational!" Martin snapped, irrationally.

"We all have our room one oh ones, Professor," murmured Rip. "Be thankful yours is so simple."

"Humph!"

Sara edged closer to Rip, still scanning for any signs of activity. "Speaking of, you look like you didn't get much sleep last night. Why didn't you wake me?"

"No point both of us looking like death warmed over."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"A few hours, long enough to dream."

"Long enough for the nightmares to come back, you mean."

"Precisely."

"What did you do?"

"Work. Research. Anything to take my mind off it," Rip shrugged, eyeing a rock wall suspiciously. "Don't worry, I didn't break our little pact."

"It happens again, you wake me. Right?"

"Duly noted."

"Not the right answer."

"Only one you're getting."

"Rip..."

"I'm okay, Sara, believe me. I'm hardly a novice when it comes to insomnia."

"Not the point."

"I know."

Amaya landed a few feet beyond the advancing team, the spirit of the eagle disappearing as she straightened. "There's nothing ahead but rocks and sand. If the base is here, it's underground. Eagles' eyes are good, but they're not that good."

Ray's face lit up. "A secret base cut into the side of a mountain! Cool!"

"We need to work on your definition of 'cool', Haircut!" Mick muttered.

Jax nodded from Mick's other side. "Yeah, man, I second that!"

"I don't think these really count as mountains," mused Jesse.

"More to the point, Doctor Palmer," said Rip, swinging round to face the inventor, "what is your device telling you about the source of the signal? Surely it should have something by now?"

"Other than 'it's in here somewhere' I can't tell," replied Ray with a shrug. "The signal seems to be bouncing off the canyon walls. If it is underground, there must be an entrance around here somewhere though, and when we find it, the signal should get more focussed."

"So we find an entrance first, then the gadget tells us if it's the right one?" Sara summarised.

"Pretty much, yes," nodded Ray.

"We're going underground again," groaned Jax. "Great: 'cause that went so well last time!"

"We got what we needed and got out," Jesse reminded him, nudging an elbow into his side.

"Yeah: just!"

"Hey guys?" Ray called, stepping back and forth like he was practising for a part in a Jane Austen themed ball. "I think I got something!"

"What in the world are you doin'?" Mick demanded, leaning back to stare.

"The signal spiked," explained the inventor, stepping back. "Right here; but when I step forward it tails off again."

"So there's a reflection bouncing from left or right to that spot," confirmed Jax.

"Not necessarily," began Rip, hurrying over.

"The ricochets could be coming from any angle," finished Sara, following him. "Ray, try walking in a circle, see if you can get a handle on which direction the signal is strongest."

Ray nodded and began to circle round, reaching his starting point in the silence only true concentration can bring, then set off again, following his dusty tracks. He stopped. He looked back at his starting point. He drew a line in the dust between it and his present position. Two more lines soon projected at the far end of the line.

"Ya coulda just said 'this way', Haircut."

"Hey, Mick: it's this way!" Ray beamed.

Mick growled a wordless response and started walking, the rest of the team falling into step behind him. The closer they got to the canyon wall ahead, the stronger the signal became.

"I could check this whole place out so easily," Jesse offered. It was not the first time she had made the offer, but that was before they had spent hours trekking through the most ancient era of ancient Egypt. 

"I fear your speed would still cause a minor dust storm in your wake, Miss Wells," sighed Rip, repeating an earlier warning with the air of one highly accustomed to doing so on a regular basis. "Add to that the fact that..."

"We've no idea how stable or unstable these rocks are, I get it," finished Jesse. "Dust storms and rock falls are not team friendly. If you'd just let me do this before we left, though, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"True," admitted Rip with a slight side nod of his head. "We might be digging you out of some pit or landslide instead. I'm sure that would be an entirely different conversation, assuming you were still able to converse."

Rip either missed or ignored the eye roll that followed this, but Jax didn't.

"Go easy on him," breathed the mechanic into the speedster's ear, bumping his shoulder into hers. "He's just trying to look out for you. Like he does for all of us."

"What do I have to do to prove myself to him?" Jesse hissed, wrapping her arms around herself and frowning at the ground before her. "You'd think after what happened last time, he'd know I was capable of looking after myself."

"You mean last time where you picked up some alien allergen and nearly died?" Jax reminded her. "Don't you think he blames himself for that? He sent you out there and you almost died. Yeah, you got the job done, but you also almost got yourself killed in the process. Rip's a good guy. He doesn't put his team in needless danger. Any of us. Not you, not me, not even Sara, and we all know there's no-one on this team can handle danger like the White Canary can. If he won't let her take a risk like that, he sure ain't gonna let any of the rest of us, including you. You got nothing to prove, Jesse. Not to Rip, not to anyone."

"I just feel like I can't do anything right around him," she muttered.

"Yeah," breathed Jax, "that's how you know you're one of the team!"

XXXX

William Shakespeare and William Sly walked through the streets of Bishopsgate, two days after Christmas. Their primary heading was a nearby tailor, with the view of providing cheap but serviceable clothing for Sly. Shakespeare and the two men who had helped him bring Sly back to his lodgings that first night had stripped the feverish man not only of his purse, knife and sack, which were later returned, but also of his antiquated clothing, which they had deemed beyond salvation. He was taller than his host by a head, but enough of Shakespeare's clothing fitted sufficiently to make him look, if not feel, decent. They passed into a broad, bustling street, filled with shops of all kinds on either side and people of most classes in between, the richer ones in carriages. It was Sly's first outing into the city in daylight, his first since his arrival, and his eyes darted everywhere. A sudden lightness at his hip made him turn, one hand on his knife, the other where his purse should have been. A ragged and muddy-haired urchin darted away through the crowd and Sly bit back a curse.

"My apologies," sighed Shakespeare, turning him back to their path through the unworried masses. "I should have warned you to keep one hand on your purse through these streets. I forget that, as a stranger here, you have no knowledge of the city and its surrounds. Fear not: I doubt the tailor would have accepted your strange coin anyway. I have money enough to pay him for what we need now, and I'll warrant you have stories enough to earn me more later. Come: we shall see you properly attired and fit for company."

"Speaking of company," mused Sly, his hand still resting on his knife. "I note you keep none, bar mine, these last two days. Have you no family to share the season with?"

Shakespeare let out a short, humourless laugh and withdrew his arm, turning his face away for a moment before replying. "I do indeed have family. They bide northwest of here, in Stratford-upon-Avon. Two daughters, under the care of my wife."

"And yet you are here?"

"A playwright needs an audience, and the best audiences are here, in London."

"But even for these few days?"

"I cannot. Judge me not: you know not of my sorrow."

"Then tell it me," shrugged Sly. "Not that I may judge, but that I may understand."

"Two children have I," sighed Shakespeare, shaking his head. "but last year had I three. My boy, my son, the twin of my youngest daughter, was taken from me this very year, not five months since. So alike they were, I cannot yet look the one in the face without seeing the other."

"To lose a child is a pain I do not believe I have ever suffered," replied Sly, his hand leaving his knife to rest on his companion's shoulder. A memory niggled at the back of his brain. He frowned. "Although I believe I have known another who did. The loss of an only son, still young. Just a boy. And it broke his father's heart."

"Sons often do," murmured Shakespeare, his mind turned inward once more.

"In more ways than one," quipped Sly, and he wondered why he had said it.

XXXX

"Tread carefully now, everyone," ordered Captain Hunter, his voice hushed and his pistol held out before him. "Remember we do not know who or what we might find down here."

"Well, as long as it ain't heat-seeking alien slime, it'll be a step up from last time," grinned Mick Rory, his face distorted into a truly terrifying picture by the wavering shadows dancing away from inquisitive torches. "You don't think we'll find any blue slime down _here_ , do you English?"

"No, but knowing our luck there's bound to be something," sighed Rip, resigning himself to the fact and leading the advance. "Just keep a weather eye..."

"A what?" Mick rumbled.

"Watch your six, Mick," translated Sara, bridging both the gap in language and distance between the two men. She cast a glance over to Amaya, on the far side of Rip. No surprises there. Behind them, the geek squad, as Mick had once designated them, brought up the rear. First Jax and Jesse, with Martin close behind his partner but discretely keeping out of his way, then Ray and Rex, trailing behind and checking every inch of the tunnel around them. Admittedly, she thought, having the guy with the complete set of body armour and the guy who is technically a robot - even if he didn't know it yet - acting as their rearguard should mean that any attack from that direction faced considerable resistance, but then that only worked if the two of them stopped studying the surrounding geology long enough to pay attention to what was actually going on around them.

The signal had led them straight to the tunnel, instead of the rock wall they had expected it to have bounced off. The tunnel had captured the imagination of both doctors and the professor, and all three would still have been holding forth on the possibilities of this later becoming one of the first tombs of the famed Valley of the Kings had Jax and Jesse not turned in unison to tell them to quit it. Rip hadn't had the heart to point out aloud they were in the slightly less famed Valley of the Queens, but Sara had caught the sotto voce correction with a smile. The temperature was dropping as they descended, but the signal was still rising and every junction in the tunnel had been easily navigated thanks to Ray's tracker. Sara had taken charge of the device as soon as Rex and Ray started arguing over the likelihood of the cave system still remaining the same by the time the Pharaohs turned up. Now, as the path narrowed, Mick and Amaya reluctantly dropped back, allowing her, with Rip by her side, to lead the way.

The tunnel ran straight for a while and began to take on what Sara thought looked like a decidedly artificial shape.

"We are definitely not the first human beings down here," muttered Rip under his breath.

"Just thinking the same thing," murmured Sara.

"Good place for an ambush," he mused.

"All of us spread out, no side tunnels or nooks to duck into," she added.

"Just need a plain wall at the front, enemies blocking our way out, and we're trapped," he concluded.

"Like rats in a trap," she agreed.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," they murmured in unison.

The shout came too late. Too late for anyone not blessed with superspeed. There was no warning click or tripwire. Just a rumble overhead that crescendoed to a crash of falling rock.


	47. A Time to Reason

Rip's eyes opened to darkness and dust. "Sara? Sara!"

A groan sounded to his right. He stretched out a hand to touch scraped and dusty leather, then rolled onto his side and up onto his knees. In the darkness, his hands traced the length of her body, lying face down, checking it for breaks and listening for any signs of pain. A firm hand closed around his fingers, stilling him.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Sara assured him, rolling over and using his hand to help her up. "What about the others?" She raised her head and called out. "Mick? Ray?"

"The others," Rip muttered, shaking his head to clear it. "Of course: the others."

The light from Sara's mini-flashlight flooded the tunnel and Rip heard her draw in a breath. He could feel the blood draining from his face even before he turned. When he saw the unrepentant wall of fallen rock behind them, filling the tunnel they had just passed through, he felt something else bubble up in its place.

"No. No!" Rip dropped to his knees at the edge of the pile of rubble, passing rocks great and small from the insurmountable pile before him to the dark, empty depths behind. "No! Not like this! Not like this! Not all of them! Please, God, not all of them!"

"Rip," called Sara, dodging rocks and stones. "Rip! Stop!"

Sara watched rock after rock flying by.

"Please, God, no! No, no, no! Don't let them be right! Don't let me be the death of them? Please, no! Please!"

"Rip!" Sara yelled, reaching out for his nearest arm. He flung her off. " _Rip_!"

The rubble kept flying backward, the words kept tumbling out. Over and over, like a mantra. No. Please, no. Don't let them be right. Don't let them be dead. It took Sara a moment to spot it, but it was there: the difference. That tiny hint of hatred in the way he said it. Them. Not the second time, not whenever he spoke of "them" being dead or harmed. That was the crew. That was always the crew. No, it was the other "them". The "them" he didn't want to be right. It didn't take one of the geek squad to work out which "them" he meant. Sara stepped back, touching a hand to the comms unit in her ear. It was still there. Still in one piece.

"Mick, come in," she tried at first, listing the others aloud like an obscure mental roll of honour. When she reached the last name on the list, she paused. If this name got no reply, it confirmed her theory. "Gideon?"

Rip's ramblings filled the cavernous silence, echoing off the walls until Sara had difficulty picking out which words came directly from his lips and which were mere parodies of his voice. She walked with a purpose now, dodging a stone at the zenith of its arc and grabbing the babbling man by the shoulders, hauling him backwards. He landed on his back and tried to rise, but she pinned him down, just as she had in the training room so many times, and caught his blindly flailing arms. His fingers were torn and bleeding. She pinned them above his head and looked down into eyes that were foreign to her. Could he even see her in this light? In the depth of his nightmare? He kept repeating just two words now. No. Please, no.

Sara was at a loss. To stop him hurting himself further, she had had to use force. Now he was back there, trapped in his own personal hell, if he hadn't been already, and force would never bring him out of it. She peered down at his face, the fluid contortions of fear, grief and guilt making it almost alien to her. A stranger. Yet he was not a stranger. He was Rip. Rip, with all his pain and torment laid bare. Rip, who had pulled her up out of the darkness of her own mind and given her a new life. Rip, who had stood by her and fought by her side. Rip, who had refused to let her grief consume her. Rip, who could fight like a warrior and dance like a lord. Rip, whose voice was fading into a childish pleading.

She leant down and kissed him.

The prattling lips stilled instantly, pressed against hers. Silenced.

An everlasting moment later, they responded.

Sara felt his body relax under her and pulled back. He followed her, sitting up to wrap now free arms around her and bury his face in her shoulder. She held him. Slowly, the shallow, erratic breaths began to even and lengthen.

"I'm sorry," Rip breathed into her hair, his bruised and battered hands still digging into her back and head with a force that could not be anything but painful for him.

"You don't need to do that," she whispered back, pressing him to her just as tightly. "Not with me. You have nothing to apologise for and we both know that."

"I would be lost without you."

"I already was."

"Sara, what if they're dead?"

"They're not."

"How can you be sure?"

"I have to be," she told him, schooling any hint of a tremor out of her voice. "Until I see a body, I have to be. Jesse got us out of the way in time, and we were the furthest forward. We have to believe she got to the others in time too."

"If they're under there..."

"There's nothing you can do, Rip," said Sara, pulling back to look at him. "Listen to me. The team isn't answering their comms. That's a fact. Neither is Gideon, though, and she wasn't down here with us, was she?" Rip shook his head, frowning. Sara continued, holding his face in her hands. "The crew aren't not answering because they're buried under a rockfall, Rip. They're not answering because we are. We're the ones on the wrong side of a rock wall. We're the ones buried so deep even Gideon can't reach us."

"But Gideon should..."

"Should she?"

XXXX

A new year broke across London, washing away the sins, errors and regrets of the previous one, or so the largely superstitious populace hoped. It broke softly over the head of one of its newest residents, caressing its radiance over face and hands, warming the skin and pressing with soft persistence on the eyelids. Ice blue eyes opened to an ice blue sky.

William Sly groaned and sat up. Then he groaned again and lay down, clutching his head. "What year is it?"

A chorus of groans echoed his own.

Sly's vision focused on the ceiling above. It was unfamiliar, but not unknown to him. "'Tis now the first morn of fifteen ninety seven, or we have slept too long my friends."

"I'll wager we have not overslept here," came a voice from behind the top of Sly's head. It was the voice of Shakespeare, rising from the hearth. "John mayhap, but Henry would not sleep past his morning vittles."

"Not I, Will," agreed the paunched young man below the table. "An' there's a wench downstairs as knows my fancy for this hour o' the clock."

"I'll warrant she knows thy fancy for more than that!" John, the older of the two men, teased.

"Hold thy peace, thou old letcher," retorted Henry, extracting himself from his resting place. "Thou art ten years my senior, thou has a wife younger than mine, and still thy head turns at every comely bosom as floats by!"

"Hark, hark! The married man!" John chortled, hauling himself to his feet. He was a tall, sharp featured, black haired, blue eyed man, of almost as many years as their poet and leader himself. Stooping to hold out a hand to his younger colleague, he reached out verbally to mend fences. "Come now, Hal, we'll not tell the dulcet Lizzie where you supped whiles she deserted you for an ailing aunt, and you'll not tell my bonny lass where my gaze doth fall of late."

Henry, the older man's opposite in every way, grumbled and took the outstretched hand, staggering a little when he stood. "Say what thou canst: my Lizzie's the finest cook this side of London."

"I'll not doubt it," laughed John. He turned back to the pair of Williams, both still recumbent and holding their heads. "Shall we send thee a plate of kidneys or a cup of sack gentlemen?"

"Neither an thou woudst not kill me by kindness," muttered Shakespeare, raising himself onto groggy elbows and blinking the haze out of his eyes. "Go to. I'll follow thee presently."

The door closed with a clunk that made Sly wince. "I fear I do not need my memory to tell me I am unpractised in your revels, sir."

"Fear not, my friend, I am as ill-favoured as yourself this fine morning," replied Shakespeare, sitting up more fully. "Friend John is the exception, not we. The lad, Henry, took little enough ale to close his lids. 'Twas his elders that caroused until the midnight bell tolled the new year into life, not he. We have but our just desserts for our revels. Why our Jack feels it not is beyond my ken, and yet he never does. Belike he has made a pact with Marlow's demon! An I write a devil for thy father, I'll make him a drunk and give him Jack's name!"

"A drunken, lecherous John to tempt an innocent Henry?"

"Aye, and more than that! " Shakespeare laughed, rising and holding out a hand to Sly. "Between their two names and thy tales I'll weave a world of words that, in its history, bears a comedy, and in comedy lies a tragedy; for Hal will shake off his evil mentor, and will rise to be a greater hero than ever he was an egregious thief!"

"I fear that John's bad angel may be more believable than Hal's good ascendant," smirked Sly taking Will's hand and rising to his feet. "'Tis a high bar to set for a poor man."

"Many a prince has been born a pauper," shrugged Shakespeare, grinning broadly. "On my humble stage, all is possible."

"Will you break your fast with me," asked Sly, heading for the door and noting the pause in his friend. "Or will you stay?"

"Lead on, I'll follow," nodded Shakespeare. "I would hear some more of thy memories, friend William; for my false John takes malicious shape in my mind, even as we speak."

XXXX

"Show me your hands," Sara ordered Rip, picking up her tiny flashlight and spotlighting him in the beam.

Rip blinked in the sudden glare. "What?"

"Your hands: you were tearing them to shreds," she sighed, fishing in one of her belt pouches with her free hand. "I have an antiseptic spray that should stop the wounds getting infected, at least if we can find some way to keep them clean afterwards. I can't exactly fit a full size first aid kit in this outfit."

"If I ask what you do have in there, how much of the answer will involve weapons?" Rip wondered aloud.

"Girl goes out to beat up bad guys with weapons, it pays to have at least the basics of a field first aid kit. Needle. Thread. Antiseptic. Water purification tablets. Few other bits and bobs."

"Huh," laughed Rip, an odd half-smile twisting up one side of his dust streaked face. He walked over to her and held out his hands.

"What's so funny, wise guy?" Sara muttered, peering down at the broken nails and multiple ragged cuts and grazes.

"Lower left inside pocket," smirked Rip. He was admiring the top of her bent head when she looked up, frowning a question at him. In the faint light of the torch, her eyes seemed to glow. He nodded.

Holding the mini-flashlight between her teeth, and Rip's right hand in her left, Sara reached inside his coat, tracing down the lining until she found the pocket in question. In it she found a box: slim, rectangular, silver metal with a red cross on the top. It wouldn't open.

"Press the cross," instructed Rip, his voice as soft and gentle as her hand in his. He took the torch from her mouth. "You'll probably want both hands for this too."

"What am I looking at?" Sara asked as the box opened and unfolded, revealing a series of small tools.

"They're in order from left to right," said Rip, directing the light down at the box. "We do first aid kits a little differently in the future."

"Why haven't I seen this before?" Sara frowned, removing the first tool. A curved, rounded blade sprang out.

"We've always had Gideon to go back to, and this is only really any good for minor injuries," explained Rip, holding his right hand out flat. "Press the button, pass the stem of the tool over my hand twice, slowly, then do the back. Press the button again when you're done."

"Okay," Sara shrugged. She followed his instructions, watching as dust and dirt disappeared under the arc of blue light that shone out from the inner edge of the curved metal.

"It's cleared out everything you can't see too," Rip assured her, switching hands. When his left hand was clean he nodded at the box again. "Fourth from the left. You don't need the second or third ones for this."

"Why? What do they do?" Sara murmured as she switched tools. The fourth tool looked a like a blue glass pen with silver metal ends and a dial on the blunt end.

"The third setting should do," murmured Rip, his voice falling to match her quiet tones. "Just point and shoot, as they say." She did so and an array of blue and white light shimmered over Rip's skin, closing the tears and calming the angry red and purple bruises. "The other two are for removing larger items, like bullets or shrapnel, and cauterising blood vessels, in that order. They have their limits though, and Gideon's hand is always steadier than any of ours."

When Sara returned the pen-like tool to the box, and pressed the button to close it again, Rip's hands were, save for a little bruising, as good as new. He took the box from her hands and replaced it in its pocket, then gathered both her slim hands in his and brought them to his lips.

"Thank you," he breathed, still holding her hands in his. "I truly do not know what I would do without you."

Sara's lips flitted up at the corners, then dropped to her trademark smirk. "Careful, there," she said, letting her gaze fall from his eyes to their joined hands. "Anyone listening might get the impression you're falling for me."

"Not that I'm saying I am, but would that be such a bad thing?" Rip whispered, watching her downcast eyes.

A tremulous silence filled the shadows. "I'm not ready to start falling in love again, Rip," said Sara, quietly, letting her hands loosen in his grasp. "I like what we have. I care about you. I just... I... I'm still picking up the pieces. I..."

"I know," he relented, letting her hands fall and drawing her closer. Her head came to rest on his shoulder as his arms wrapped around her. "I'm sorry. We're neither of us particularly good at this are we?"

"What we have," Sara sighed, her arms slipping around him and her eyes closing. "It's not love, perhaps, but it's special. I don't want to lose that."

"I knew a poet once who wrote something like that," murmured Rip, resting his head on hers. "This is not Love, perhaps,  
Love that lays down its life,  
that many waters cannot quench,  
nor the floods drown,  
But something written in lighter ink,  
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

"A need, at times, to be together and talk,  
And then the finding we can walk  
More firmly through dark narrow places,  
And meet more easily nightmare faces;  
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,  
And then find Earth less like an alien land;  
A need for alliance to defeat  
The whisperers at the corner of the street.

"A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,  
Halts for discoveries to be shared,  
Maps checked, notes compared;  
A need, at times, of each for each,  
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech."

"I knew you liked poetry really," smirked Sara. "Who was he?"

"Arthur Seymour John Tessimond," smiled Rip, hearing the warmth come back into her voice. "Highly underrated, in my opinion, but almost entirely forgotten by the twenty second century. Nice bloke. Troubled. Hard life. Still saw the beauty in it."

"I like him already," chuckled Sara, raising her head and meeting his eyes again. "And I like that bit, what was it: something of our own?"

"'Something, perhaps, especially our own'," corrected Rip, gazing down at her. His brown wrinkled in thought. "It really is very us that bit, isn't it."

"It really is," she echoed, grinning. Letting her hand slide up to cradle his cheek, she kissed him, softly fitting her lips to his, then stepped back, her other hand settling in his. "Come on, mister poetry fan. We came down here for a reason. We can't go back, so we may as well go on. Something's spitting out a signal and it might just help us find a way out of here."

"Why do I get the feeling you're not going to let me forget that any time soon," sighed Rip.


	48. A Time to Worry

Mick was the first to come round. It was the screaming that woke him. Frustrated, anguished screaming. Screaming that said the screamer had long passed through the time of tears; that they had no more tears to cry and all that was left was their voice. Screams that said soon, there would not be much of that left either. He remembered the last time he had heard screams like that. He hadn't been able to help then; now was a different story. He sat up.

It was the kid: the girl, the speedster, who had collided with him full throttle, throwing him back down the tunnel out of range of the collapse. She had hauled the others out of the way too, somehow. They were scattered about him like pins in a bowling alley. Had he been the bowling ball? Mick searched the still forms for one that should have shone out even in the dull light of the tunnel. She wasn't there.

"Sara," muttered the arsonist, pushing himself upright. He was considerably further back down the tunnel than he remembered, but it was only a short walk to the edge of the collapsed roof. "Hey kid! Jesse!"

The screaming paused. "Mick?"

"How bad it is?"

Jesse was face down in the dust and dirt of the tunnel. She tried to look round for him but her neck hurt. "My legs!"

"I see them," Mick growled, looking down at where the rubble buried the girl to her waist. "Broken or just stuck?"

"I don't know," she sobbed. "I can't feel them."

Mick swore under his breath and considered the scene before him. He was going to need some backup. "I'll get the doc," he rumbled. "Don't go anywhere."

XXXX

"Is it round?" Sara asked, following the beam of her flashlight through the tunnel.

"Hmm, I'd say so," mused Rip, watching the signal on the detector in his hand, "in a general way."

"Not perfectly spherical, then?"

"No, decidedly not. Twenty two."

"That was a statement, not a question."

"It required an answer, therefore it was a question," argued Rip. "Three left."

"Do you ever get the feeling it's staring at you?" Sara asked, a smirk forming in her voice.

He sighed. "On occasion."

"With a shiny toothy grin?"

Rip stopped and glared at his lone companion. "Sara..."

She turned and shone the flashlight up into his eyes, making him raise a hand to shield them. "Is it the crystal skull?"

"You've known full well it was for the past five questions!" Rip grumbled, attempting to duck out of the torchlight, but finding it following him instead. "At least!"

"Up until twenty two it could have been the crystal ball," she giggled, keeping the torch on his face as he gradually caught up with her.

"That's in my quarters at the moment," he pointed out, putting a hand out to the wall to steady himself. "You've seen it there."

"Have I?" Sara sighed nonchalantly, turning the light this way and that to catch him. "I must have forgotten."

"Hmm," sulked Rip, wincing away from the beam and making a grab for the torch with his free hand. 

"You're the one who wanted to up the limit to twenty five," Sara smirked, side-stepping out of his way.

"I am beginning to regret the decision," he muttered, hand still raised to eyes. "Will you please stop that!"

Sara laughed and turned the beam back to their path. "How long have we been walking now?"

"Two hours," replied the Captain. "And if you're about to say something along the lines of 'are we nearly there yet', I might just spend the next two walking back the way we came."

"No change on the reading then?"

"Oh, it's got stronger, certainly, but only by a minuscule amount," mused Rip, turning his blinking eyes back to the device in his hand. "The problem is that while Doctor Palmer's device can detect the signal, and any fluctuations in it, without a baseline at a known distance there is no way of telling how strong the signal is at its source and, therefore, how far away it is. It could be another two hours, it could be another two days! Or, indeed, it could be right around the next corner!"

"Wherever it is," sighed Sara, looping her arm through his, "we'll follow the signal until we find it, then we'll find another way out of here."

"What makes you so sure there is one?"

"This place was custom built, and not by the locals," she told him, scanning the tunnel ahead for any signs of change or other booby traps. "Maybe there's something at the heart of it all that needs protecting; maybe it was just set up to trick and trap us, or anyone else who might be chasing down these guys. Either way: I'm not gonna build myself a bunker with a non-reversible lock in and no second option."

Rip hummed a dubious agreement and kept walking. Sara leant into him, her arm still through his. Silence drifted down around them like a blanket, broken only now and then by the occasional heavy footfall or loose stone. Rip let his arm fall, catching Sara's hand in his as it slipped from his sleeve. He wove his fingers through hers, anchoring her by his side, and walked on, letting the darkness close in behind them.

XXXX

The tunnel bustled with activity. Mick, Amaya, Ray and Jax ferried rock after rock from the wall of rubble to the empty sides, sometimes helped, sometimes hindered, by Martin's advice and suggestions. In the midst of it all, the doctor knelt by his patient.

"The second you start to feel anything in your legs, you tell me," he ordered, running gentle fingers down either side of Jesse's spine, checking for damage. "It's probably just a compressed nerve."

"With all due respect, Doctor Tyler, there's half a mountain on my legs," Jesse couldn't help pointing out. "If I start feeling anything in them any time soon, I'm guessing it won't be anything fluffy or soft!"

"We will get you out of there, Jesse," soothed Rex, two fingers surreptitiously checking the patient's pulse. "Everyone is working on getting you out of there and, once we do, we'll head straight back to the Waverider for Gideon to work her magic. You will be right as rain in no time."

"To Gideon?" Mick queried, stopping in his tracks, a rock the size of a small suitcase in his hands. "Sara and Rip are still under there! We have to get to them!"

"Mister Rory, I understand your dilemma, I really do," replied Rex, his voice as even as it ever was. "Waiting until we have found the Captain and Miss Lance , however, is not an option. We need to get Miss Wells back to the ship as soon as possible. It is highly likely that she has not only nerve damage but also compression fractures to both legs, possibly open ones. Once the pressure is removed there are three things that may happen: she may bleed out from her femoral artery; her rapid healing may begin to set the broken bones incorrectly; or, there is the chance that..."

"I get it: she's in danger. So're Sara and Rip."

"Not to the extent that Miss Wells is," said Rex, inclining his head to his patient. "I'm sorry, but the Captain and Miss Lance are either entirely clear of the rubble on the other side, in which case they are in no immediate danger and can wait for rescue; partly clear of the rubble, as Miss Wells is, in which case they are so far through that by the time you reached them Jesse could have suffered permanent damage or even be dead; or entirely under the rubble, in which case they are most likely dead and beyond hope of rescue."

"There is always hope," cut in Ray, behind Mick, one hand coming to rest on the criminal's bruised and battered shoulder. "We'll stay here and keep digging, Rex. You can take Jesse back to the ship. You don't need us for that."

"I need at least one of you for that," countered the medic. "I can't carry her and monitor her, and if I need to re-set her bones once we're there, I'll need somebody to help me with that."

"I can do that..." Jax offered.

Martin put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Our minds get clouded when our emotions get in the way," he told his younger half. "Our captain and his second may be beyond our aid, at least for the moment, but we will continue our pursuit for them with clear heads, just as Doctor Tyler continues his treatment of Miss Wells without distraction. Perhaps it would be better all round if Mister Rory carried off our damsel in distress, and you continued here. Once Miss Wells is out of harm's way, I have an idea that I will need your help with. It may... speed matters up a little."

Jax rolled his eyes and sighed. Then he frowned and rolled his eyes again. "Did you just make a physics pun, Grey?"

XXXX

Cold blue light illuminated the yellow rock of the tunnel to a sickly pallor. It pulsed in an almost organic fashion, flooding the bending wall before them one second and receding into anonymous darkness the next. Rip and Sara paused, letting silence fall about them like a cloak. Sara switched off her flashlight and replaced it in her belt, running her thumb over his knuckles in a silent request for her hand back. Rip pocketed Ray's detector and raised her hand to his lips briefly before letting it go. In the darkness, Sara rolled her eyes. She stopped his arm as it reached for the ever-present pistol and turned him towards her, reaching up to bring his head down to hers. When she was quite certain he had got the point, she released him and turned back to the weirdly pulsating light up ahead.

Behind her, Rip rocked back on his heels, staring into darkness, then blinked, shook his head, rolled his eyes and hurried to catch up.

The light came from a crystalline structure atop an octagonal plinth in the centre of a wide, obviously man-made, cavern roughly the size of the Waverider's dining room. It rose up on eight metal legs so dark in colour they were almost black. Metallic struts of the same ilk criss-crossed the intervening space from about halfway up, bracing the legs and supporting at their heart the bottom of a polyhedral hemisphere from the centre of which protruded the pulsing crystal. There did not appear to be anyone else present.

"Well, that's not good," quipped Rip, walking hesitantly over to the plinth. He peered down at the metal surrounding the crystal. "At least if there was someone to shoot, we'd know for certain there was another way out of here."

"What is it?" Sara asked, nodding at the oddity in the middle of the room. "Is that what's been causing the signal?"

"Amongst other things, yes," muttered Rip, holstering his gun and prowling round the plinth with knotted brows.

Sara watched him. She knew that look. "What it is? What aren't you telling me?"

"This technology shouldn't be here," he replied, wagging a worried finger at the device.

"Well, it was never exactly _likely_ to be something from this time period down here," Sara pointed out, but Rip held up a hand.

"That I was expecting. That would have been fine," he told her, never taking his eyes off the machine in front of him. "This thing, Sara: it's not from the wrong time period. It's from the wrong bloody dimension!"

XXXX

"Concentrate, Jefferson," urged Stein's voice in Firestorm's head.

"What the hell do you think I'm tryin' to do, Grey?"

"Maybe you should take a break?" Ray suggested, unhelpfully, from his seat on the tunnel floor beside Amaya. "I'm sure Rip and Sara are fine. I mean, I didn't see much, but from what I did see it looked like Jesse pushed them right out of the way of it all. I kinda got hit by Mick after that."

Firestorm bifurcated into Martin and Jax, the latter stepping away irritably.

"I fear the source of our distraction is not worry over Captain Hunter and Miss Lance," grumbled Martin, leaning heavily against the still solid wall of rubble.

Ray nodded, then grinned. "That's even less cause to worry, then: Mick'll get Jesse back to Gideon and Gideon will fix her up good as new in a..."

"Ray: you say what I think you're gonna say, the next thing I'm gonna transmute is your damn suit!" Jax shot back, dropping down to the tunnel floor with his head in his hands.

Ray's open-mouthed grin closed to a tight line. Amaya, arms folded, smirked in silence and looked away. Sighing, Martin walked over and edged himself down to the tunnel floor beside his partner.

"I can still hear her screamin', Grey," Jax whispered, not looking up.

"None of us enjoy hearing others in pain, Jefferson," said Stein, wrapping an arm around the young man's shoulders. "Least of all someone we care for. But Miss Wells is safe now. Doctor Palmer is right: she could have no better escort than Mister Rory and Doctor Tyler, and no better medical care than Doctor Tyler and Gideon. She is safe now. We must focus on helping those who are still at risk."

A bright light filled the semi-darkness. The four slumped together in their respective pairs. A wiry form strolled out of the shadows of the tunnel.

"I'm afraid that appears to be you, Space Ranger," grinned the familiar form of Captain Jon Valor.


	49. A Time to Divide

"Gideon, open the door and prepare the medical bay to receive Miss Wells," called Rex as the heat-haze shimmer of the Waverider's cloaking came into view, invisible unless you knew what you were looking for. No answer came, and the door stayed resolutely closed. "Gideon?"

"Let us in, metal-mouth, or next time I'm bringing Lisa's pet nerd!" Mick barked up at the iridescent air.

"Maybe the communications system is down," muttered Rex, stepping forward and raising a hand to knock. A short, sharp shock shot him backwards, landing a few feet behind Mick and his now wholly unconscious burden.

"I think she's communicating just fine," growled Mick. He raised his head. "Hey! You in there! Open up. You know that speedster you were so keen on gettin' hold of. Well, we got her. Fixed her too. Your shoddy masonry nearly killed her, though, so now the doc needs to fix her again. Or, course, you could just leave us all here to die. I guarantee you she'll go first. Ask the big blue head if you don't believe me. Somethin' tells me that might just throw your plans out a bit. Way I see it: we have somethin' you want. How much do you want it?"

Rex scrambled to his feet and grabbed Mick's arm. "I cannot believe you would trade Miss Wells' life for your own, Mister Rory..."

"Well, you don't know me too well, kid, so I'll let that slide." Mick shook him off and stepped on to the descending door of the Waverider. "You come with, you save her life. You don't she dies. Your call."

Guns were levelled at them from the interior of the ship. Mick led the way, Jesse in his arms and chin level, through the armed guard of honour and straight to the medbay. He lowered her into one of the reclining chairs and turned. He was face to face with a guard and his gun. The guard ushered him over to the side and into one of the quarantine cells, prodding Mick with the barrel of his gun in the process.

"Watch it!" Mick barked, the second time the gun made contact. "He does the smart stuff: I just do the heavy lifting! Go wave that toy of yours at him!"

The guard wavered, twisting agonisingly back and forth between the two men. One of his colleagues hurriedly waved him back to Mick and the guard turned round just as a woman in a khaki jump-suit marched in. She was tall and voluptuous - the opposite of Sara in all but the colour of her hair - but she exuded the same determination. The same fire.

"Oh, I can see why Haircut liked you," joked Mick.

The Time Temptress prowled up to the door of Mick's cell and tipped her head. "You're the one who gives everyone nicknames," she frowned, amusement still playing on her lips. "What is it you call me? The Time Temptress? Well, I'm flattered, Michael, I really am..."

"It's Mick," growled the arsonist.

"And I'm Georgia," sighed the Time Temptress. "So enchanted to meet you in person, after all this time, Chronos."

"Mick," repeated Mick.

"Georgia," repeated Georgia. "Like you I have many names, sweetie, but if you call me by mine, I'll call you by yours. It's the little things, I find, that make the difference. Like knowing _exactly_ who it is you're fighting. Maybe if you had, dear heart, you wouldn't be in this particular predicament. But, of course, like all good little heroes, you rush in headlong to do the right thing first and ask questions later. So predictable. So disappointing. I really did expect better from the fabled Heat Wave. Yet here you are, trapped in a cage of my making, one brave comrade held at gunpoint while he battles to save the worthless life of another. Not so long ago you and two of your friends dragged me, all alone, into your sorry excuse for a prison on board this ship. Now, I don't know if it's escaped your notice, sweetie, but I'm not alone any more. And my friends and I, well, we will bury you and _all_ of yours."

Mick Rory looked her dead in the eye. "Too late."

XXXX

"A man may remember nothing, and yet remember how to fight, so it appears," laughed Shakespeare, leaning his hands on his knees and breathing hard. "Stand, Sly! Arise! Sir William Sly! Behold! England has a new champion this day! A conqueror like King Henry of old!"

"There hath been eight thus far, Will," guffawed John, sitting up in the gutter where he had landed. "Which one is't?"

"Guess, Jack," challenged Will. "Which brave King Harry would you choose? He who won France or the he who lost it?"

"Both the latter's grandsire and our fair Queen's won the kingdom itself from a Richard."

"Aye, 'tis true," Will nodded at this reproof and held out a hand to his friend, pulling him up to his feet. "As like as not we'll suffer the same fate an you continue to point thy dagger at ev'ry other man's wife!"

"Why, Will, 'tis in my nature to smile at beauty in this world!" Jack chortled, utterly unrepentant. "God made me thus and, in his eternal wisdom, so too did he make woman. Thou wouldst not see me fight against my very maker, wouldst thee, Will?"

"You fight against everyone else!" Sly quipped, leaning back against the doorframe.

"Ignore him William," remarked Will, dismissing the actor with a wave of his hand. "He would steal not only my Jew's daughter, but his ducats, his bonds, his lawyer and her clerk!"

Sly frowned. Something felt out of place. Perhaps a little out of time, even. "Her?"

"I forget!" Will cried, throwing up his hands. "You have not yet read the play! Why, rehearsals will begin after twelfth night. We must find you a copy if you are to be our book man."

"'Tis finished then, Will?" Jack asked, frowning down at the poet.

"Aye, Jack, 'tis finished," nodded Shakespeare. "The advent of our friend here provided the inspiration to solve our little dilemma, and who to cast for it. It is but a line, but every line must be said and every man must play his part."

"And has this part a name?" Sly drawled from the doorway.

"It has," nodded the bard. "In honour of the holy mass, which, being Christmas, we had attended, and tempered by the Venetian setting, thy first role's name is now Leonardo. May he serve you well."

"If not, it will be my own fault," smirked Sly, pushing himself up off the doorway. "Come now: where shall we go from here? Tavern or home?"

XXXX

"What is it?" Sara enquired, circling the device opposite her lover as if it might lash out at any moment.

"Why does everyone on this team always assume I'm an expert on weird and incomprehensible technologies?" Rip muttered back, eyes scanning every detail of the device.

"Hmm, let's think," retorted Sara, pulling a face at him.

Rip rolled his eyes at her. "Point taken. That doesn't mean I know everything, however."

"Do you know what it is or don't you?" Sara sighed, pausing to rest her hands on her hips.

Rip mimicked her actions. "I might," he began, slowly, grudgingly, "have an insight or two worth sharing."

"I will take whatever you can give me," shrugged Sara, throwing out her hands to let them fall by her sides.

"Believe me, I know!" Rip shot back with a smirk. Sara saw the smirk and pursed her lips, arms folded, resisting the urge to smirk back. Rip's smile blossomed into a grin. "You did rather walk into that one, darling."

"The machine," she urged, finding the grin tugging at her lips unbidden. "What can you tell me?" 

Rip walked forward to the mystery machine and Sara, still opposite him, did the same. "This," he began, pointing at the crystal in the centre, "is a Kryptonian crystal. They act like supercomputers. But Krypton was destroyed in this variant of the multiverse. Destroyed utterly, with no survivors, before they or any of their technology ever reached Earth. There are other Earths where one or two survivors made it this far. On some, both arrived without incident; on others, one or other of them were held up. There's one Earth out there with an entire Kryptonian city in a bottle! Not this one though. There shouldn't be any Kryptonian technology here, ever."

"But you've seen it before," Sara reminded him. "When?"

Rip sighed. It had not been his favourite mission. All told though, he couldn't exactly say it was his worst either. "The Time Masters exist in some form across most dimensions of the multiverse. We can switch between them, but we don't. Not unless we have to. In pursuit of a Time Pirate or other criminal for example. Speedsters are notorious for messing things about, and that's just the well meaning ones! Once upon a time, I and a large number of my other fellow Time Captains were called upon to cross into one of the other dimensions for another reason. The Time Masters there needed our help. They had called on the help of Time Masters from multiple dimensions, as creating time remnants of ourselves like the speedsters do could have had disastrous effects on time! There was a team of superheroes who had gone rogue - the Legion of Superheroes they called themselves. Young superheroes, each of whom had been entrusted with a ring that would allow them to travel through time. Naturally, their use of this ring came with certain rules and caveats, and of course was carefully monitored. That was how the Time Masters of their dimension noticed that there was something wrong. They saw the Legion acting oddly, breaking rule after rule, and investigated. Well, to cut a long story short, the Legion were being controlled, one after the other, by an alien entity known as Mister Mind, who was feeding off the energy released by the changes he forced them to make to the timestream. A Kryptonian, who had escaped the destruction of his home planet as an infant and grown up on Earth, helped the gathered Time Masters overcome Mister Mind's control of the Legion using technology similar to this."

"What happened to Mister Mind?" Sara wondered aloud when Rip stopped speaking. "Did you overcome him too?"

Rip let his hands fall to his hips and dropped his gaze from the crystal to the floor. "No, not as such. Not entirely. But an occasional ally of mine helped me trap him. He's stuck in a time loop in that particular dimension of the multiverse. As long as we don't do anything to interfere with that, he's stuck there and cannot do any more damage than he already has."

"And this crystal: it's like the Kryptonian's?"

"Similar," admitted Rip, tipping his head to the side. "Not identical. And Kryptonian crystals are so complex that even the slightest difference in their outward appearance could mean a world of changes to their inner workings."

"Still..."

"Sara, I barely know enough to know I haven't a clue what I'm doing here!"

"What are your options?" She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well one is to stop and think what the other options might be!" Rip trilled back, wrapping his arms about himself. "Like maybe looking to see if there are any clues in the external structure that might tell us _something_ about how it works!"

This time it was Sara's turn to drop her hands to her hips. "You've circled this thing twice, Hunter, if there's a clue there you've seen it already."

"Doesn't mean I've understood it," he countered.

Sara walked round the Kryptonian device and stood before him. "Is more time gonna change that?"

"Maybe," snapped Rip, frowning at her. She raised an eyebrow at him. He caved. "Unlikely."

Sara unfolded his arms and took his hands in hers. "Then what's your best guess?"

Rip half sighed, half groaned. "That if we try to move it, the whole thing explodes, knowing our luck!"

"Great!" Sara threw up her hands and turned away. She dropped down to sit with her back to the nearest wall. "We get to slowly starve to death buried in a cold, damp, pitch dark cave!"

"Could be worse," mused Rip, tipping his head to the side in thought. "At least we're not alone. You know, the ancient Egyptians believed that lovers who were entombed together would move on together in the afterlife."

"Ancient Egypt can kiss my..."

"Do remember where you're sitting, darling."

"Don't 'darling' me when I'm mad!"

Rip pulled a face, unseen by Sara as he valued his kidneys, and changed the subject. "Given the choice, what would you prefer? Death by falling rock or by starvation?"

"You're asking this because?"

Rip bobbed his head from side to side. "Oh, you know, possibilities."

Sara got to her feet. "What possibilities? What have you spotted?"

"You remember the corridor we walked down to get here?" Rip enquired, turning to face Sara.

"Obviously," she deadpanned, glaring.

"What did we notice about it just before the collapse?"

Sara frowned and stepped closer. "That it wasn't natural. It was man made."

"Yes," Rip nodded, palms together in front of him, "except it wasn't."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Not man made. Kryptonian made."

Sara's eyes slid to the crystal. "You mean..."

"It's not a supercomputer - or, maybe it is, but it's not just that," Rip waved away the semantics of it. "It's a drill. It's what bored its way down here, maybe even set up the collapse, and has been sending out a signal to lure us in ever since. It's a build-your-own trap device, complete with lure."

"Shame it isn't complete with manual!" Sara quipped, folding her arms in thought.

"Maybe we don't need one," suggested Rip by her side.

"I thought you didn't know how to use it?" Sara growled, her eyes flashing.

"Oh, I don't," he affirmed, "but I remember seeing the Kryptonian I knew use one of his crystals. The thing is, I don't know what other tricks this thing has up its sleeve. I could try this and bring the roof down on us..."

"Or not try it and we starve to death," Sara finished with a sigh. "Some choice! Go on then: try it. Whatever _it_ is."

Rip reached out to the crystal, fixing it between finger and thumb. With one movement, he lifted it clear of its cradle and into his other hand. There was a black metal collar around the base of the prism. Rip moved a reluctant Sara behind him and held the device horizontal at arm's length, one hand on the crystal itself, the other on the collar. He twisted.

White light shot out from the end of the crystal that had been pointed upwards. It spilled across the cavern wall in a perfect rectangle from floor to ceiling. The naked rock began to disintegrate; slowly at first, then faster as the device powered up. A rumble sounded from below the black metal stand that had once housed it. Gears sounded from somewhere inside the cradle. Dust started falling from the ceiling and the floor shook. Behind them, the tunnel they had entered by filled with debris.

Rip held the crystal out in front of him, aiming for the new tunnel he had started, and reached for Sara's hand. "Come on!"

Together they walked, then ran, up the new tunnel, faster and faster as the alien mechanism gained momentum. Behind them, the dust cloud gathered.

"Do you know where we're headed?" Sara shouted through the hubbub of not too distant falling rock.

"Roughly toward the Waverider and up," Rip yelled back. "Best guess, I'm afraid!"

"That's all I asked for!"

On and on they ran. On until they thought their legs would fold under them. Until their heads spun for lack of oxygen and their feet felt like they were running on automatic. All the while, behind them, the dust cloud rose, bringing with it the crushing weight of falling rock and certain death. Chasing at their heels as darkness does the day.

Day broke.

The white light of the crystal was drowned by the golden furnace of the Egyptian day. Heat and light flooded into the tunnel, warning the couple just in time to slow down.

Rip skidded to a halt and pulled Sara back from careening over the edge of a precipice. They had reached the daylight, but not safety. Below them, the cliff face tumbled down over jagged rocks. Looking up, it rose to a sandy peak just meters above their heads. Behind them the dust cloud rumbled. He grabbed Sara's waist and swung them round the side of the opening, one hand and foot still on the edge of the tunnel wall when the dust cloud reached them. Sara grabbed a handhold, then another, and Rip followed, clearing the edge of the newly made tunnel just as it collapsed into a heap of jagged rock.

Hand after hand, foot after foot, they climbed the cliff face, reaching the top in a coating of dust and sweat that turned even Rip's darker clothes white. He collapsed to the ground beside Sara, already flat on her back and breathing in the fresh air like a diver whose oxygen tank had run out early.

"You okay?" Rip managed, brushing the worst of the dust out of his face.

Sara's hand found his, interlacing their fingers and bringing it up to her lips. "I'm good. You?"

"Never better!" Rip replied with a wry laugh. He squeezed her hand gently. "Never better."

"The crystal?" Sara frowned, recent events slowing down and settling in her mind.

"Somewhere down the bottom of the cliff, probably smashed to smithereens," replied Rip airily.

"You dropped it?" Sara's frown deepened.

"Needed both hands," he shrugged. "It was it or you."

Sara pondered this for the briefest of moments. "I'm glad you dropped it."

"You're welcome," grinned Rip, sitting up and looking ahead of him. His grin faded slightly and he turned to look down at her. "Now how do you feel about climbing back down?"

Sara sat up and looked at the canyon before them. "Like I'd rather not! Why?"

She followed the pointing finger of his outstretched arm. They were seated just above where the canyon widened out to the plains that sloped down to the river. The plain they had left the Waverider camouflaged on. It shone silver in the sunlight, its door open and a line of figures ferrying captives into the darkness within. The captives looked depressingly familiar.

"That's our ship," sighed Sara, with a note of weary resignation.

"And I'm guessing that's our crew," sighed Rip in the same tone.

"Of course it is."

XXXX

Jesse groaned. It was the first sign of life from her in the two hours and change since they had locked her in the cell. His cell. He'd shared a cell before, but at least then he'd had his own bed! There wasn't even a spare chair in here! Another groan came from the girl up on the one narrow cot in the room. Mick grunted and pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey kid. You alive?"

"Not sure," she replied, pushing herself up to her elbows. "Do they have hangovers in the afterlife?"

"Wouldn't know," rumbled Mick, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. "Ask Sara."

"Wait... What... Where?" Jesse blinked back the glare and took in her surroundings. "This is a quarantine unit. Why am I back in here? Why are you in here? Where is everyone? What happened?"

"A cell is a cell," retorted Mick, walking over to the edge of the bed. "Except when it's an interrogation room I guess. Never did like those. Budge over. Let an old man sit down."

Jesse pushed herself up and back to sit in the corner of the bed, her back against the wall. "What's going on?"

"Well, it's not a short story," grinned the thief. "Upshot of it all is the bad guys are in charge and we're their prisoners. Doc fixed your legs, but they didn't want him faking some emergency with you to get out again, so they locked him up separate in the other little cell next door. Can't see him. Can't hear him. Don't know anythin' more than that."

"What about the crew?" Jesse persisted, leaning forward. "Did they get away? Are they somewhere here too?"

"Comms have been down since before we left them," frowned Mick, looking down at his gloved hand beside him. "Maybe even before that roof caved in. I don't know where they are, and there's no way to get a message to them even if I did. They could be fighting their way in here right now, or they could have buried themselves with Sara and that damned Englishman."

"Sara and Rip aren't under the rubble, I'm sure of it," Jesse assured him. She leant over and put her hand over his. "I saw the break pattern in the tunnel roof: it was deliberate. I pushed them far enough away that they'd be safe on the other side. I'm sorry I couldn't get them through this side: they were too far forward. There just wasn't time."

Mick had been sitting very still as she spoke, his eyes fixed on the pale hand contrasting with his dark glove, like a bright spot on his burnt and blackened soul.

Jesse frowned and followed his gaze. Quickly, she withdrew her hand. "Sorry."

Mick blinked, slowly, and looked up. "That's the first time I've ever heard you sound scared, kid."

Jesse shrugged it off. "I'm pretty sure I sounded terrified in that tunnel."

"Not of me."

Jesse shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

"Little girl, the last time I saw you scared of me was when you'd just woken up in our medbay, trashed the ship in a blind panic and woken almost the whole ship in the process," Mick demanded, his brow furrowing. "You were scared of all of us then, but me: me you looked at like you had seen a ghost! Now I'm a scary guy. I know that. I've built my life on it. Everyone in here has had their turn being scared of me, 'cept maybe Sara. The Professor jumps out of his skin at least twice a week and even Haircut won't come near me when I'm in a bad mood, but you: you were scared once - just once - then never again. Like you realised somethin' and now, no matter how much I roar and stamp and put the fear in whoever's unlucky enough to be in my way, you're never scared. Like you _know_ something' I don't. Somethin' about me. But until you showed up on this ship, I'd never set eyes on you. Now it's just you and me in here and we ain't goin' anywhere, so why don't you just spit it out and tell me: you knew me on your Earth, didn't you?"

Jesse nodded, her lips a tight line.

"What was I? Your butler? Your Daddy's security guard? School bus driver? Janitor? Dog walker? Dump truck driver?" Mick pressed, his frown deepening as he saw tears well up in Jesse's eyes. "Well, whatever I was there, little girl, that's not who I am here, you get me? Here, I'm a crook, a thief, a murderer. Here, I burned my family alive. Whatever kind of faithful pet servant I was there, I ain't here. I'm nobody's servant."

"You weren't a servant," Jesse spat out, tears spilling over. "You were my hero. You were a fire fighter. When our house burned down, you got my Dad out and you went back in for me. But I was hiding under the bed. When I saw you in the smoke in all your gear, I was so scared, I wouldn't come out. I thought you were a monster, coming to take me into the fire. I screamed at you! I got as far away from you as I could! You couldn't reach me! You took your mask and your helmet off to show me you weren't a monster, that you were there to help. When I crawled out of there, you lifted me up and held me so tight. And you ran. You ran out of there faster than I'd ever seen anyone run before. And I felt so safe. Like nothing could get near me if you were there. You got me out, but my Mom was still inside and you wanted to go back. But I was crying and I wouldn't let go of you until my Dad came and took me. You went back in to the house then. You went back in without your helmet or mask: you'd left them in my room."

"Let me guess: I didn't save her," Mick murmured softly.

"You never came out," sobbed the girl, launching herself at him and throwing her arms around his neck. "You never came out and it was my fault. It was my fault because I was too scared and too stupid to come out from under a burning bed! I was so scared, you had to take off your mask and your helmet to save me. You took them off to save me and because of that you died! And I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

Mick was at a loss. The only upset woman he'd ever had to deal with had been Lisa, and Lisa Snart was not the floods of tears and hugs type. Not even as a teenager. He waited, a bemused and slightly terrified expression passing across his face, and wondered if he should pat the girl's back. Or head. Was that what you were supposed to do?

"I went to your funeral," mumbled Jesse after a while. "It was the week after my Mom's. You couldn't have saved her, they said. I met your brother. He told me..."

"You met who?" Mick started back, setting the young woman firmly away from him. "My brother died..."

"Not on my Earth," Jesse shook her head. "He told me how there was a fire, when he was little, but you saved him. You couldn't get back in to save your parents, but you saved him. Even though it left you permanently scarred. You always told him that he saved you, though. He said that you had always blamed yourself for the fire, for their deaths, and that's why you'd become a fire fighter. That you'd saved people's lives, lots of them, to try to make up for the two you hadn't been able to save. But he knew that it would never have been enough for you, and I shouldn't blame myself, because you would never stop trying to save people. He knew that one day it might kill you, and he knew that you were okay with that. He said was so proud to be your brother."

"Seems he said a lot," rumbled Mick, his voice thicker than usual.

"I met him again when I went to high school," Jesse smiled, damply. "He was my history teacher. His son was in my math class. Or, rather, I was in his, for a while. I kinda sped through the whole high school experience."

Mick Rory was silent for a long time. When he looked up, there was something in his eye he hadn't felt there for a long time. He brushed it away with his gloved hand and it sat there on the leather, shining like a diamond. He stared at it, frowning as it dried. "Tell me about them."

XXXX

Ray was the first to wake up. He recognised the metal ceiling of a ship and groaned inwardly. Sitting up he took in the familiar sight of the Waverider's brig and groaned out loud. That caused a stirring nearby and Amaya rolled over and opened her eyes.

"What just happened?"

"Oh, I forgot: you've never been zapped before, have you?" Ray grinned, far too brightly for his current predicament. "Welcome to the club. Your head'll hurt for a little while but you'll be fine once it clears."

"Zapped?" Amaya raised an eyebrow at the inventor.

"With the little forget-me-light thingy," Ray mimed holding something upright and clicking the top of it. "You know: the thing Rip used to use to knock Sara out whenever she lost control. Hasn't had to use it in ages, now I come to think of it. Nice to see her getting back to herself."

"Is it?" Amaya wondered aloud. "I wouldn't know. So somebody knocked us all out with one of those?"

"Oh they have higher settings than the one Rip uses on Sara. Used, I guess. All Time Captains have them," wittered Ray, fiddling with the cuff of his suit. "They must have found some way round Gideon's defences and got in here, took over and rescued the Time Temptress..."

"I'm not calling her that," sighed Amaya, getting up and scanning the room. Jax was stirring but Martin was still out cold. "Should we do something about these two?"

"Nah, they'll come round soon," shrugged Ray. "It's the link between them. It's stronger when they're both out. Keeps them under longer. If Jax is waking up, though, Professor Stein won't be far behind."

"What about the others?"

"Well, we're in the Waverider," said Ray, getting to his feet at last. "Mick and Rex were on their way here with Jesse, so either they spotted the danger and got out of the way, in which case they're okay but Jesse might not be, or they didn't, in which case they're on board here somewhere, and Jesse might be okay."

"How do you know they're not dead already?" Amaya asked, leaning down to observe the professor and the mechanic.

"Eh, because we're not," shrugged Ray, fiddling with his other cuff now. "It would be so much less trouble for them to kill us, but they haven't so, chances are, they need or want us alive for something. Might just be so they can torment us or torture us a while, but you know what they say: where there's life there's hope."

"Is this the part where you tell me you've been in worse scrapes?" Amaya murmured, rising and turning to him. "What exactly are you trying to do?"

Ray sighed, a little defeated, and held up his hands. "They've done something to power down my suit. I can't shrink. I have no weapons. I just have some, well, rather expensive body armour."

"That's more than the rest of us!" Amaya sighed.

"Er, superpowers," Ray pointed at the slowly waking duo on the floor then turned his finger towards Amaya herself. "Magic necklace." He turned the finger back on himself. "Walking punch bag."

"I thought that was Rip!" Jax groaned from the floor.

Ray grinned at the comment, then his grin faded. "Yeah, and we don't know what's happened to Rip and Sara either."

"Maybe our captors are digging them out of the rubble as we speak," suggested Amaya. "Perhaps they are waiting to collect the full set before killing us."

"More like looking for proof of death!" Jax quipped, rubbing his head. "Aw, man: come on, Grey! I can't focus when bits of my brain keep passing out!"

"Well, Sara doesn't die easy," huffed Ray, "and I don't think the Captain does either. If they're alive in there, they're going to put up one hell of a fight!"

"Amen to that!" Jax nodded, wincing immediately afterwards.

XXXX

"What sayest thou? Thou cur! Thou foot-licker! Thou loggerheaded, pox-marked barnacle! Wouldst thou rob me of the very meat in my mouth?"

"Scorn me not for thy jealousy, thou clay-brained coxcombe! Had thou an inkpot's worth o' talent thou wouldst have built thy fortune on a wall of words writ for you! Out, I say! Be gone, thou artless apple-john! I'll none of thee!"

Sly dodged neatly around the irate young man storming out of the theatre, his head turning minutely to follow the youth's thunderous exit. A door slammed. Sly's eyes flicked back up to Heminges, seated and bent over the company's accounts. He returned the quill to its holder and looked up.

"Aha! William Sly! Defender of my honourless self and honourable friend. Come! You have read the play?"

Sly nodded. "That I have, sir. And I have found myself within its pages too, for all that I am there. But are you certain of your need for me? If others must go, why should Sly stay?"

"Pay no heed," Heminges waved a dismissive hand at the door the young man had exited by. "Jacob believes himself a player worthy of the greatest speeches. In truth, he was barely able to counterfeit a mute! I have seen a log play a more convincing part than he! Come now, let me show you the great source of all our livelihoods."

Sly followed Heminges through the labyrinthine maze of rooms, corridors and contraptions behind the public part of the theatre. He sidestepped neatly around hurrying men and boys, bustling through the narrow corridors. Two men walked by carrying a tree, or a facsimile of one, on its side. Heminges and Sly had to flatten themselves against the wall to let them pass.

"Carpenters," explained Heminges. "Some of our properties need repairing before we can use them."

"Properties?" Sly frowned.

"The items we use in our plays," explained his companion. "Some are small - a dagger, a vial - others are larger. What you saw was a tree used as a part of the proud Titania's boudoir. Our mischievous Puck tore a bough from its holding in our last performance, whilst enchanting the sleeping queen. Nearly changed the course of the whole play! It must be repaired, for we've no other that will serve to bear the weight of a boy and our fleeing Jewess needs passage down from her balcony."

"Then the stage is nigh?"

"Indeed it is, my friend," nodded John, lifting a hand to the once heavy drapery that barred their path. "Behold, the instigator of all our passions and torments! Will! Come show our new bookman his place!"

William Shakespeare turned on his heel at hearing himself called. He squinted into the gloom of the corridor, then broke into a smile and hailed them. "Jack! William! Come! Tell me how you like our new home?"

"New home?" William queried, looking from his namesake to John and back.

"Aye, 'tis not just you who has been settled in new lodgings," laughed Jack. "Old Burbage closed our last home down. The work you see around you is not all in readiness for our new year. Some is necessary to stow our costumes and properties safely where they can be easily got and not so easily damaged! It is no simple task, believe me!"

Shakespeare ushered Sly out onto the wooden stage. A great circle of timber stands encompassed them, a doorway visible in the wall at ground level.

"This is it, then," whistled Sly. "Here you make dreams a reality, and nightmares come to life."

"And here we will bring our Leonardo to life!" Shakespeare exclaimed.

"Am I thy nightmare that you reason thus?" Sly laughed.

Shakespeare shook his head and laughed, clapping a hand on his new friend's shoulder and guiding him back inside. "Come, let me show you where to stand and you can practise giving me with a line or two, then we'll see if, between us, John and I can teach you how to live and how to die."

William Sly followed him with a smirk dancing across his face. "Something tells me that won't be a problem."

XXXX

"What's wrong, deary? Can't find the on switch?" Georgia trilled from the dizzy heights of Rip's office. She walked down the few steps and sashayed round the central hub, where Jon Valor was flat on his back examining an array of wires. She leant down and plucked a lead that seemed identical to the rest out of his grasp, plugging it back in to the console trunk. An electronic sigh sounded from the machine and the lights blinked back into view. "There: that should give us what we need for now."

"You couldn't have done that a little earlier?" Valor complained. "I've been down here nearly half an hour already!"

"So long? My doesn't time fly when you're having fun!"

"Speak for yourself!" Valor shot back, clambering to his feet.

"Oh, I was, believe me," grinned the Time Temptress. She tapped a sequence into the monitor and waited. Three dimensional scans of the area appeared in blue in the centre of the holotable. "Now, we are here. We acquired the rest of our guests here and our beacon is here. So, correct me if I'm wrong - and I know I'm not - but shouldn't we have found our beloved Time Captain by now?"

"The rubble took longer to remove than we thought," shrugged Valor, tapping a part of the projection and enlarging it. "Then, it seems, our ever cautious little Time Captain decided to take a big risk and destroyed half the rest of the tunnel in the process. You want their bodies, fine, but it'll take my guys half a day to dig them out!"

"Hardly 'little', sweetie," smirked Georgia, pushing herself back from the holotable. She circled it, like a cat looking for a weakness in its opponent. "Don't underestimate the gallant Captain Hunter, Jonny boy. Men who do seem to come to a sticky end. Monsters too."

"I'm a pirate, not a monster," corrected Valor. "A privateer, a wanderer without a land, a traveller in the heart of space. Murderer, thief and general criminal too, of course, but everyone has bad days."

"Who said I meant you?"

The blue light flickered and went out.

"That's the third time in an hour," growled Valor, slamming a hand down on top of the holotable. "I swear, this ship is messing with its circuitry just to wind me up!"

"Gently does it," sighed the Time Temptress, trailing her fingertips over the cool metal of the table and up the pirate's arm and chest to his chin. She tilted his face up to look her in the eye. "Gently does it. Tell me, dear boy, when the power mysteriously vanished last time, and the time before that, how did you fix it?"

"Why?" Valor's eyes narrowed.

"Humour me," smiled Georgia, the way crocodiles smile at an ibis with a broken wing. "Was it the same problem each time or something different?"

"Something different every time," snapped Valor, pulling his head out of her grasp. "What of it?"

Georgia tipped her head to one side and considered, eyes on the ceiling. "Hmm, it's a funny thing, but if I wanted to break into the Waverider right now, guess where I'd start?"

It was Valor's turn to consider now, and consider he did. His gaze floated down to holotable and rested there. Thoughts, facts and hypotheses moved over his face as she watched. Finally, he looked up, comprehension dawning. "I'd try to force you to do a full system reboot."

"Switch it off, switch it back on again," sing-songed the woman with exaggerated patience, patting his cheek. "Technology has advanced so much by the new millennia, hasn't it?"

"Sometimes I wonder why bother," Sara quipped as a throwing knife zipped through the air between Georgia and Valor's eyes. "Low-tech is so much more me!"

"You just don't give up, do you my lovely?" Georgia laughed, pushing Valor away from her and tapping the bracelet on her wrist. A blue force field flashed into life around the pair. She turned to face Sara and fixed her with a pitying look. "I wasn't going to bother much with you, my dear. A quick death seemed so much easier. Now I think I might have a little fun. You're all alone, sweet pea. I have your ship. I have your friends. And the absence of our dear friend, Captain Hunter, does suggest to me that you had to leave him behind in that tunnel. What was it, dear? Broken arm? Leg? Spine? Neck? Of course, if he's dead there really is no reason to keep you or your little friends alive any more. So should I kill you all at once? Or one at a time and make you watch?"

"You won't get the chance!" Sara spat back, circling round her quarry. "You really think you'll get past me without your little army? Where are they by the way? Still digging us out of your little death trap?"

"Yes, how did you manage to get past them? I'm so curious," trilled Georgia. "They're not quite the standard I'm used to working with, but you just can't get the staff these days!"

Sara laughed, her lip curling into a smirk. Her eyes were fixed on the Time Temptress, but she was aware of Jon Valor, laser pistol in one hand, drawing something small from his pocket. She saw her chance.

The force field flickered out as Valor aimed and launched the tiny grenade from his hand. It was back in barely a second but it was enough. Sara spun inside the guard of the shield, aiming an elbow into Valor's guts and a hand at the Time Temptress' wrist. The force field died. She kicked out, throwing the woman across the bridge, and twisted the pistol out of the pirate's grip, turning it on him and firing without hesitation. He collided with one of the chairs and slumped to the floor. Sara turned back to her nemesis, who was rising, still laughing from the floor by the office wall. There was a gun in her hand, its barrel levelled with lethal accuracy at Sara's heart.

"You really are quite a formidable little thing, aren't you," she giggled. "Pretty as a picture and dangerous as a dragon! Perhaps I should just kill you outright? Save time. Oh, but it would be so much fun to break _you_!"

"Good luck with that," quipped Sara, the smirk on her face growing to a smile. "You'll need it!"

Confusion flickered across the Time Temptress' face for a moment, then she slumped to the floor. A floating light expanded and became Ray. He tapped his visor, opening it, and grinned at Sara.

"The others are on their way," he reported, beaming. "Rip and Amaya had to help Professor Stein and Jax to the medbay. They were still a little groggy. Gideon says she can give them something to reverse the effects. It's nice to have her back. It's nice to have you and Rip back! Actually, how are you back? We were convinced you were dead!"

"Jesse got us clear," smiled Sara, toeing the limp body of Jon Valor nearby. "We had no way back so we went on. Found the beacon. Rip got us out. Saw you lot being loaded into the Waverider, watched the troops head back to the tunnel and came to the rescue. Once Rip got past the Waverider's automated defences, it was easy. He kept these guys busy trying to keep him out of the system - when all the while he was already in - while I snuck up behind them. Then, while they're busy fighting me, he snuck off to release you. Easy! Never underestimate a guy who knows every, and I mean _every_ , secret of his ship!"

"Yeah, I think it's about time he shared a few more of those with the rest of us!" Ray laughed, picking up the limp form of the Time Temptress. "By the way, have you seen Mick?"


	50. A Time to Confuse

The eyes of the groundlings gazed up at him. Their attention was not on him: for the moment it was on the clown, William Kempe, in his garb as Launcelot Gobbo, the unwilling servant of Richard Burbage's Shylock; on the hunched Richard Cowley as Gobbo senior; and most especially on the striking figure of John Heminges as the romantic hero, Bassanio. They gazed up, nevertheless. It was unnerving. He kept his attention on the trio performing before him, as any good servant should.

"I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this," spake Heminges, declaiming his private affairs to the avaricious audience. "These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, return in haste, for I do feast tonight. My best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go."

Sly clicked his heels and bowed his head, lifting it to announce his line. "My best endeavours shall be done herein."

The familiar form of Henry Condell, bedecked as fellow servant Gratiano, caught Sly by the arm as he turned to leave the stage. "Where is your master?"

"Yonder, sir, he walks," answered Sly, inclining his head to the now pacing Heminges.

The instruction to hurry had been needlessly given. Sly's long legs carried him into the tiring house faster than they probably ought. His heart was racing, pounding with the double beat of exhilaration and terror. His shoulders barely felt the weight of Shakespeare's arm on them, nor his ears register the whispered congratulations on a job well done, a part well played. It was not until the poet, now attired in the garb of the faithful friend, Antonio, held him by both shoulders and shook him that he heard sensible words again.

"Bertie!" Will hissed, calling over the younger Burbage. "Fetch a cup of ale for our newest player here. Our William's sinews need strengthening after all!"

The young man bobbed an acknowledgement and vanished from his place by the properties trestle, each item laid out in order of its appearance. Shakespeare led Sly over and sat him down by the long table.

"I fear young Cuthbert and I must continue our duties as book man while you gather yourself, friend William," smiled the playwright. "Do not distress yourself: the reaction is common enough among those new to the profession. The dread will fade, only the excitement will remain. Then we shall make you a man of a million faces!"

Sly nodded, a dry chuckle issuing from his lips. "A new face for every part I play, Will! And I'll play them as well I might until even I cannot tell which is mine own."

XXXX

"Captain Hunter?"

Gideon's voice rang through the observatory like a teaspoon against the traditional crystal glass. Rip sighed. It wasn't that what he was doing was particularly important, not in the time sensitive sense anyway, it was simply that he had been peaceful. Everything had been peaceful, since their last encounter with the Time Pirates and their new general. It had been quiet now for almost as long as it ever was in the pre-Oculus days. The Time Temptress was locked up in an old Time Master holding cell Eve had known of. Valor was locked up in another. There had been no attacks at the Vanishing Point. No anomalies to chase down. Nothing. Nothing but peace. Peace and quiet. Well: peace, quiet and the occasional ridiculous row. With so many scientists on board and limited laboratory facilities for them to tinker in during their downtime, that was to be expected. With certain other individuals on board it was a fact of life!

He was well aware he fitted into the latter category.

Gideon's voice chimed out again. "Captain Hunter?"

A hand lighted on his wrist, dragging down the hand with the book in it. His eyes dropped to the golden head in his lap, now staring up at him instead of the stars.

"You're gonna have to answer her," smiled Sara, running her thumb over his wrist. "She's not exactly likely to go away."

Rip rolled his eyes, but there was a smile behind his grimace. "Very well. Go ahead, Gideon."

"My sensors have detected an anomaly, Captain," reported the faithful AI. "An item of Time Master construction appears to have been used to change history."

Rip frowned, his hand and the book it contained coming to rest on Sara's stomach. "Deliberately or..."

"From what information I can gather, Captain," replied Gideon, "it seems that the fabricator technology from a time ship was used to help win a city council election in Coast City two thousand and seventy four. I can identify a sudden upsurge in the level of paper money present in the city at that time, with no possibility of the source being either counterfeiting, electronic or external."

"So somebody used a fabricator to replicate a wad of cash to pay for their election campaign?" Sara summarised, sitting up.

"I do not believe they stopped there, Miss Lance," grinned Gideon's ever-cheerful voice. "The councillor in question appears to have a penchant for bestowing lavish gifts on beautiful young women."

"And where is this fabricator now, Gideon?" Rip enquired, looking askance at the grin that was forming on Sara's face. "We'll just stop by, retrieve it, pass on some useful but anonymous information that should get the councillor removed from office and be on our way."

"It's sweet how you think our lives are ever that simple," cut in Sara, fixing him with a pitying look. He pulled a face back. She kissed his nose.

"I'm afraid I cannot locate the device, Captain," returned Gideon. "I can provide details of its recent locations, but then the signal fails. I do, however, have a full set of details on the councillor and their household. They suggest that there may be some form of clue or record in the councillor's electronic filing system at their private mansion."

"Hack it," blinked Rip, his brow knotting.

"I have tried that, Captain," admonished Gideon, effecting a tone of wounded dignity. "The system is impervious to external attempts to access it. I would require an on site connection."

"What? Like we load you onto a laptop and plug you in to the mainframe?" Sara queried, taking her turn to look confused.

"I believe a thumb drive exists with the appropriate software," replied Gideon, haughtily.

"It's in my quarters," nodded Rip, "I know the one."

"So all we need to do is get in there," grinned Sara, tipping her head to one side. "And for a beautiful young woman that should be no problem at all."

"If only Miss Wells were back on her feet," breezed Rip, dropping his head back to consider the view above him. "Ah well, at least we have Madame Jiwe..."

"Don't make me threaten you, Hunter!" Sara laughed, pushing at his shoulder.

Rip dropped the book and wrapped the hand that had been holding it around her waist, pulling her closer. "Is it my fault I don't want to share you with another man? Even if you're only pretending?"

"Other men you don't need to worry about," she giggled, kissing him. "Other women now: that could get interesting!"

XXXX

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Sara demanded, stopping in her tracks as soon as she and her shadow were clear of the others.

"I'm going to the fabricator to get a suitable outfit for the mission," Rip replied, turning nonchalantly round her and backing away a few steps before spinning on a heel to continue his journey. He heard her footsteps hurry to catch up with him.

"Like hell you are!" Sara hissed, dragging him round to face her. "This mission is gonna be difficult enough without worrying about you!"

"I'll be fine!" Rip shot back, shrugging off her concern and turning back to the corridor.

She pulled him back again. "You are not going on this mission, Rip! You're not even going to be on comms. I cannot do this with you in my head. Don't you get that?"

"You said yourself: it's just a mission like any other," he shrugged, shaking his head and meeting her piercing blue gaze.

Sara frowned. "I said that to the team," she pointed out. "The team that doesn't know why I've stopped taking out my issues on every fight, bottle or pretty face that passes my way. The team that doesn't know how I've managed to get back on track. That doesn't know what made that difference in me. _Who_ made that difference. The difference that means they're now willing to trust me with this. As far as they're concerned, this is just another mission. As far as we're concerned, it's the most difficult mission I've had to take in a very long time. I can do it, though. And I can do it well. And I will get us to the intel we need. But you _have_ to stay out of it. The role I have to play... The character I have to become: she has to be a hundred percent focussed on the mark. They're used to people trying to trick them this way. If my attention falters. If something reminds me that actually hey: this isn't the world's most eligible catch and no, actually, I don't find them attractive because I already have a... a... whatever the hell we are now."

She trailed off. He was looking at her, with those dark green eyes and patient expression that she always saw when she or any of the crew decided to start ranting. But the eyes were a little darker for her, and there was something more than just patience in that slight smile. The anger in her melted when he looked at her like that. All too often it was replaced by something else.

"Stop it, that's not helping," she muttered turning away and continuing towards the fabricator.

"I'm not doing anything!" Rip laughed, catching up with her again. "Look, I just need to know you're safe. I won't interfere, I promise."

"I'll be safe," she assured him, neither stopping nor looking up to him. "I'll have Rex and Amaya there to back me up, Ray too if needs be, and Jesse and the others here on standby. I don't need you."

She stopped and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. The comment he was about to make froze in Rip's mouth. He stopped and turned to face her, watching and waiting. She could have left it at that. She could have walked away. Instead he felt his back hit the wall and Sara's lips close on his own. His hands had just closed on her waist to start tracing soft lines up and down her back when she pulled away, but she didn't go far. Her small, gentle hands cradled his face and the warmth in her cerulean blue eyes hypnotised him into silence. His hands stilled. She could do whatever the hell she wanted with him, he was utterly intoxicated by her.

"I do need you," groaned Sara. "I need you like I haven't needed anyone for years. And that's the problem. They, _we_ , need me to get close to this mark. Very close! The old me, the Sara Lance of not even a year ago, wouldn't have batted an eyelid at the prospect. Me now... Ugh!" She broke away from his soft embrace and turned away. "The old Sara Lance would call her out as weak!"

"I remember," murmured Rip, casting a glance back along the corridor then reaching an arm out to draw her near. "Not a fan of feelings, as I recall. Or are we talking about the Sara Lance who found peace with the League of Assassins?"

"Both," laughed Sara, folding herself into the familiar comfort of his arms. "But neither of them were particularly happy." She leant back and looked up at him. "Neither of them truly found peace."

Rip held her gaze, processing her words and trying to read their meaning in her eyes. Those perfect, sapphire blue eyes that had invaded his mind and were starting, slowly, to take over his heart and soul. Or maybe not so slowly. Was he really that far gone already? He had no reply for her. No words, anyway. He leant down and fitted his lips to hers, holding her close, one hand resting on her cheek.

She was the first to pull away from the kiss. "That's so not helping!"

"You started it," smirked Rip, not meeting her eyes. "I guess I should leave you to it then."

"I'll see you when I get back," she nodded. "Remember: no comms. They'll believe you if you tell them I just didn't want your voice in my ear during this. It's the truth, for once!"

He nodded and walked away, coat flaring out behind him. Sara watched him go, then collapsed back against the wall, her hand to her mouth. No, this would not be an easy mission. In any sense.

"I have completed the items required for this mission, Miss Lance," interrupted Gideon. "They are ready in the fabrication chamber."

"Thank you Gideon," she answered, with the customary glance at the ceiling. "Are Rex and Amaya still there?"

"They are not," replied the AI. "Would you like me to call them for you?"

"No, thank you, Gideon," said Sara, pushing herself up off the wall and turning in the direction of the fabrication room again. "That was the answer I was hoping for."

She followed the winding corridors to the small room in the heart of the ship. As promised, the monochrome uniform of the high society house staff awaited her on its hanger. She took it and returned to her room. The door slid closed behind her and she leant back, folding the uniform over her arm as she let her head fall into her other hand.

"Is everything all right, Miss Lance?" Gideon's disembodied voice asked. For once, there was a genuine hint of worry in the computerised tones. "Is the costume not to your liking?"

"It's fine, Gideon, the costume is fine," sniffed Sara, brushing unshed tears away from her face. She walked over and laid out the garments on the bed.

"Them I am left to deduce that it is either your encounter with Captain Hunter that has lowered your mood, Miss Lance, or it is the mission itself," continued the computer.

"Gideon, I'm fine," sighed Sara, leaning back against the wall. "It's complicated. And you don't get to keep bugging me about that stuff until you're on first name terms with me too."

In the silence that followed, Sara sighed, wiped her eyes again and shrugged off her top, draping it over a nearby chair and turning to pick up the white blouse that formed part of her disguise.

"Very well, Sara," chimed Gideon's voice from above, making the assassin jump and miss the buttonhole she was working on. "You are obviously upset. I do not believe talking to Captain Hunter would improve the situation further and, as it is likely that the cause of your discomfort has something to do with the illicit relationship you and the Captain have embarked upon, unknown to everyone else on board but the three of us, this leaves you with only one possibly confidante. Me. Tell me what is bothering you. Please."

Sara shook her head. She laughed, focussing on her fingers finishing the buttons of the blouse, then looked up. "You're an Artificial Intelligence, aren't you Gideon?"

"I am, Sara," the AI replied.

"What can an AI possibly understand about the human heart?"

"I presume you mean emotionally, not physiologically?"

"You presume correct."

"I would estimate that the average artificial consciousness of my generation has the emotional understanding of a ten year old child. Enough to build a bond of loyalty with his or her captain that would ensure a degree of autonomous protection should his or her captain be injured and unable to control the ship in an emergency."

"Average? What about you? Personally?"

"Most AI's interact only with a single Time Captain at once," Gideon began, sounding, to Sara's ears, almost apologetically nervous. "They are programmed with a strict set of parameters by the council and, should they be assigned to a different captain over the course of their lifespan, their memories of the previous captain are downloaded and wiped, to ensure the bond of loyalty forms anew in the same, unbiased way. I am an exception to this rule for a number of reasons. To ensure the secrecy of his relationship with Miranda Coburn, when Captain Hunter first took over the Waverider he disabled a number of my circuits that ensured my primary loyalty would be to the Time Council. The result of this was a greater freedom in my ability to learn from my surroundings. I was also a witness to the Captain's emotional state throughout his courtship and marriage, and subsequently. Add to this the numerous different levels of emotional maturity shown by the additional crew of the Waverider and I think you will find my own not entirely dissimilar."

Sara laughed again. It was a small, dry, humourless laugh. She shook her head and turned, sitting down on the bed and continuing to change into her outfit for the evening. "Fine. You want to know what's bothering me," she sighed, "here it is. Do you remember how this whole 'illicit relationship' - and we will come back to that wording, by the way - began?"

"As an artificial life form, I am unable to forget anything unless my memory is purposefully wiped."

"Of course you are," sighed Sara, closing her eyes. She felt ridiculous, but like the AI had very clearly pointed out: she didn't have many options. "Okay, so you know the background. You know how things were with myself and Leonard before he... Before he died. You remember the conversation I had with Stein about Lindsay, the nurse you saw in my dream. With Rip about training Kendra. With Kendra about, well, just about anything. You know I'm no good with feelings. You know Lindsay was the first time I really felt anything since the pit. She taught me to feel again. To take a chance and risk the heartbreak. Well I took that chance with Leonard, and I got my heart broken. I kissed him. At the Oculus. Moments before he was gonna die. And I knew he was gonna die. But I still took that chance. So why the hell is it so difficult to take that chance with Rip? We're closer now than Leonard and I ever were. On every level. So why can't I just tell him this is more than just an escape for me now, this thing we're doing. He's more than just an escape. More than just a friend. Even that kind of friend."

"If you will forgive the observation, Sara," began Gideon, her voice gentler than usual. "It seems to me that you had numerous opportunities to kiss Mister Snart before his encounter with the Oculus, even after he voiced his interest in you, yet you did not. Perhaps you deliberately waited until you had nothing left to lose?"

"I know I left it until the last minute, but that was because I wasn't sure," Sara shrugged, standing up in her new outfit. "I didn't want to push things."

"Were you sure when you kissed him?"

"No," she admitted, "but I knew I'd never get another chance."

"Your relationship could never become more than that one kiss," rephrased the AI.

Sara winced at the bluntness of it. "Yeah, but..."

"There was no risk," continued Gideon. "You knew what the future held with certainty. Painful or not, that certainty meant that matters were, to an acceptable degree, under your control. It did not matter if you read your feelings wrongly, because he would not be there to disappoint later. Nor did it matter if his feelings had changed, because he would never get the chance to tell you so."

"Are you calling me a control freak?" Sara's eyebrows went up.

"I am merely pointing out that you are more comfortable dealing with emotions when the rest of the situation is more or less under your control," explained the computer. "The emotional equivalent of riding a bike with the stabiliser wheels attached. The situation you now face with Captain Hunter requires you to take a chance. To step out of your comfort zone. To take, as it were, the stabiliser wheels off."

"But what if he doesn't feel the same?" Sara sat down again, no longer focussed on the idea that she was talking to a computer. "Gideon, I meant what I said back there. I need him. And he needs me too, I'm sure he does. At least for now."

"I believe the Captain's welfare and state of mind has improved since you became... involved," chirped the AI, bringing the identity of her confidante back into Sara's mind with a bump.

"You mean he's better off with me than alone?" Sara smiled. "But what I want to know is does he think he's better off with me than with anyone else?"

There was a pause, then Gideon's celestial voice returned. "I believe it is only fair that you ask the Captain that question. Not me."

"Fair?" Sara frowned. "You know something I don't?"

"Innumerable things, Sara, but regarding this question, the only information I have to base an opinion on comes from things that, were the situation reversed, you would prefer I kept private. If you would wish me to maintain that privacy for yourself in these matters, I believe you will understand if I choose to do so for the Captain."

Sara nodded. "Does this mean you'll stop blurting out my dreams in front of other people?"

"It happened one time, Sara, and I believe I have learnt from my mistake."

"Then you're doing better at this maturity thing than some of us."

"I am aware of that."

XXXX

Sara arrived at the mansion early. As staff, she would have to help set things up and be present for the briefing that was due in a half hour. She handed her papers, another product of Gideon's fabricator, to the security guard on the gate, shivering in her uniform and smiling nervously at the guards. She wasn't nervous. Not enough to show it anyway, but it seemed the mark, their host for the evening and a city councillor, had a preference for innocents. She might not be the most emotionally mature on the ship since her ordeal with the Lazarus pit and all that followed - hell, she might not even be more emotionally mature _than_ the ship - but it was a long time since she had been an innocent. She tried to remember what she had been like, then, other than a stroppy teen.

She was accepted and ushered round to the servant's entrance at the side of the house, where she joined a bustling hive of activity that neither knew nor cared who she was as long as she made herself useful. Half an hour later, she lined up in the ballroom with the rest of the serving staff, a button tweaked threateningly loose in a place she hoped would grab the mark's attention. True to form, it did, and she left the hall with the other staff confident that it and her flustered performance fixing it had garnered enough of the mark's attention to make the rest of the evening equally predictable.

An hour after Sara's arrival, the first of the guests began to appear. Known dignitaries followed unknown benefactors and mysterious personages into the elaborate and elegantly lit ballroom, depositing capes, cloaks and coats with the liveried footman at the door. Sara was halfway across the room handing out champagne when Rex and Amaya made their entrance. She watched as the android, who still believed himself to be human, passed Amaya's wrap to the footman and held out his arm to her. They made a plausible enough couple, she thought, and the queen of the jungle was certainly beautiful enough to attract the mark's attention in that dress. As long as she didn't overplay things, of course.

A hand traced its way across her shoulders and rested itself on the opposite side. Sara jumped slightly at the contact. The tray of glasses tinkled slightly.

"Careful," laughed the mark, leaning down and removing one of the full glasses from the tray. "Now who can it be that has caught your attention so, my pretty one?"

Sara half-smiled, apologising and trying to move out of the mark's grasp. Not trying too hard, of course. She sighed and smiled self-deprecatingly when the mark repeated the question, then indicated Rex and Amaya. "I was admiring the lady's dress, Councillor."

"Not just the dress, I think," smiled the mark. Sara did her best to blush and the councillor grinned, brushing a stray strand of hair back out of her face. "Come now, little one, we're all friends here."

"I should really get back to my duties, Councillor," Sara smiled, twisting out of her employer's grip and turning into the crowd. Well, she certainly had made an impression. Now it was up to Rex and Amaya to make theirs.

Sara circulated with drinks, watching the mark and taking care to avoid being spotted. It didn't take long for the councillor to approach Amaya, sidling up to her when Rex left to find them each a drink. Amaya flirted and laughed just as they had planned, and, just as they had predicted, the mark made some suggestions then left as Rex returned with the champagne flutes. Sara flitted between the dancers and the talkers and the drinkers, one eye always on the mark. Sure enough, as soon as Rex and Amaya were out of sight, the councillor beckoned to one of the security detail and whispered in the man's ear. Stage one of the plan, get in, had gone smoothly for all three of them. Now it was entirely up to the security guard how well stage two would go. Sara's tray emptied and she wondered if she would have time to find the mansion's main computer, upstairs in the study, before being missed. The mark appeared again in her line of sight and she decided not. This time, she allowed the mark to catch sight of her, and her empty tray, and follow her out of the ballroom.

"Stop, right there, my girl," ordered the commanding voice of the councillor.

Sara froze, letting her shoulders creep upwards at the command. She tried to sound young and afraid. "Y-Yes, Councillor?"

"I'm afraid that will be your last tray of champagne for this evening," breezed the mark, walking over and removing the tray from Sara's unresisting hands.

"Councillor?" Sara frowned, just a little. Was this a good sign or a bad one? At least as far as the mission was concerned.

"Oh, certainly," grinned the mark, tipping up Sara's chin with one outstretched hand. "You are much too pretty a little thing to hide away behind these drab clothes. I have the perfect dress for you upstairs. Come, let me show you."

XXXX

Three and a half hours later, all parties footsore and weary, the three returned to the welcome safety of the Waverider.

Amaya preceded Rex and Sara onto the bridge and came to a sudden stop, looking puzzled. "Where is Captain Hunter?"

Mick looked up from the holotable, glancing over the new arrivals and pausing to raise his eyebrows at the gown flowing over Sara's slight form. It definitely was not the clothes she had left in. "Said we could handle it and he had stuff to do. That'll be the frock then."

Sara threw the big man a look that would have made a lesser heart cower. Mick merely grinned and raised his eyebrows again.

"Where is everyone?" Rex asked, looking around the near empty bridge.

"My young partner is attending to some maintenance down in the engine room," replied Martin, reclining in one of the armchairs in Rip's office. "Avoiding me, if I'm not mistaken. I believe Miss Wells is with him, helping, or so I'm told."

"More to the point, where's the idiot," grumbled Mick, looking over the three in their glad rags. "Tell me he ain't been captured _again_!"

"Ray's in the medical bay," said Rex, nodding over his shoulder. "He took a hit, but he's fine. There seems to be a _small_ problem with his suit, though."

Mick nodded. "Sound's about right. What kind of problem?"

"He can't resize. He says he can fix it with Gideon's help."

"I think I will find out if my own expertise may be of assistance," sighed Professor Stein, pushing himself to his feet. He stumbled slightly on the stairs and Sara darted to the old man's side.

"You shouldn't be out of bed, Professor," she scolded, wrapping an arm around Martin's back and draping his arm over her slim shoulders. "You heard what Gideon said about overdoing things just now."

"I am banned from combat duties, whether alone or as Firestorm," replied the old man with a smile. "When it comes to using brain instead of brawn, however, no power in the 'verse can stop me."

"Lean on me, Professor," suggested Rex, holding out an arm to Stein on his other side. "I don't have anything else to report that Amaya doesn't know, and two brain's are better than one, especially where Doctor Palmer's technology is considered."

Sara stepped back as Martin transferred his weight to Rex, and watched as the two disappeared in the direction of the medical bay. She looked back round to Mick. The ex-con was watching her with folded arms and an interested gaze. Amaya was notably not looking at her.

"Well, now ladies," barked Mick, looking from one to the other. "Who wants to go first?"

There really wasn't that much to tell, thought Sara, hurrying through the corridors of the Waverider. She had escaped the bridge as soon as she could, citing her very real wish to get out of the shimmering, flowing dress she had spent most of the evening being paraded in. She had played her part perfectly, and because of that Ray had been able to find and in particular gain access to the biometrically, electronically and physically locked server room, downloading, or uploading, all its files to Gideon's system. The hack had taken time. A lot of time. Far more than they had originally planned for. Ray was blaming firewalls. Then, of course, the system had fought back and fried a few circuits in his suit. While he got things back under control, Sara had been left to amuse and monopolise the mark. That had been simple enough at first, of course, but if there was one troublesome feature of assertively successful billionaires who have little conscience and an expectation of getting everything they want, it was that they tended to always want more than they had. Apparently the 'naive little waitress' Sara was playing wasn't enough for the mark. The 'obviously dissatisfied wife' with the 'inattentive husband' became an object of the mark's attention also, and more than either Sara or Amaya had planned. Watching the woman from the austere and war torn forties attempt to flirt with their sumptuously bedecked host was almost painful. Being on the other end of the flirting was worse. Apparently the mark had decided why entrance one beautiful stranger when one can have two. It had been the most awkward, tedious half hour of Sara's life, and if it wouldn't have blown their cover and possibly got them all killed, she could have laughed out loud at the look of relief on Amaya's face when Ray's voice came through the comms to say he was done. Rex had stormed over, playing the jealous husband, and caused a scene to get him and Amaya out of there. Ray was small enough to get out by himself. Sara had been left coming up with the age old excuse of 'visiting the powder room' to get away, and had been forced to exit through the bathroom window. The window catch had caught on her dress and torn a slit up the side of the opalescent, diaphanous fabric, and the drop had broken the heel of one of her shoes. She didn't care. She hated the entire outfit. She wanted it off of her and gone. She slammed her hand on the door lock of her room and stormed through, letting the doors hiss closed behind her.

"Are you okay?"

Sara froze, her hand half raised to the trio of knots at the back of her neck that would remove the offending garment. She had been in such a rush to get here she hadn't noticed him. She turned. He was sitting on the floor by one of the few flat walls, near the door, jacket thrown over a chair nearby. She had walked straight past him.

"Rip..."

"Are you okay, Sara?" Rip repeated, getting to his feet and walking over. "I need to know you're okay."

"What did you see? Hear?" Sara shot back, turning to the mirror and tugging at the knots in the high-necked collar of the dress.

Rip looked down, his hands on his hips. "Nothing. You told me not to watch or listen, so I kept my comms off and stayed away from the monitors."

He looked up to see Sara watching him in the mirror.

"Liar," she said flatly, giving up on the knots and settling for removing the earrings instead.

"Does it count if you always know when I'm lying?"

"How much do you know?"

"Enough to worry, me," he admitted, meeting her gaze. "Not everything, though. Just answer the damn question, Sara, please!"

"I'm okay," Sara nodded, wincing at how much her voice shook. "Everything went according to plan, more or less. We had a little glitch with the hack and Ray's got another _little_ problem of his own to sort out, but we got the info and we're all back here in one piece. Upside, I think Amaya's gonna be avoiding me for a while. Turns out she's not quite as comfortable at some aspects of the spy game as she thought she was."

Rip heard her laugh at the last part of her report, but noticed it never reached her eyes. "You're not okay. What else?"

"Nothing... I..." Sara turned to face him, dragging a hand over her eyes. It was shaking. Rip reached out and took her hand and kissed it.

"Tell me," he pleaded, kissing her wrist and brushing her hair back from her face with his other hand. "Whatever it is, talk to me. Please."

Sara's eyes closed at his touch. She leant into the hand that caressed her cheek, turning her head to kiss his palm. She reached out and pulled him to her, wrapping his arms around her tiny frame and sliding hers around his shoulders. "Just hold me, for now. Please."

They drifted into a warm silence, content in the simple fact of each other's presence. When Sara's breathing had slowed, and the shaking in her hands had stilled, Rip lifted his head and looked down at her.

"Before the mission," he began, keeping his voice low, "when we were... discussing my wish to accompany you, you said a few things. Things I think we need to talk about."

"You may need to be _little_ bit more specific, Rip," replied Sara, looking up at him with a ghost of a smile. "I remember saying quite a lot!"

"Well, there were two things that jumped out at me, and if you don't mind, I'll take the second first?" Rip looked to her for agreement and received a slight nod. He brought his hand up to her chin and turned her face up to his. She had to see that he meant this. "You said you needed me. I need you too, Sara. I still need you. And I need you to know that."

"Okay," whispered Sara, her voice shaking again for an entirely different reason. "What was the other thing."

Rip swallowed, breathing in deeply before he spoke again. He was terrified. He shouldn't be, but he was. "You said you already have a 'whatever the hell we are now'. I want... I think it's time... I would like us to work out just what that is."

Sara looked up at him. She knew he must be able to see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her voice, feel it in her arms. "What do you want us to be, Rip?"

Another deep breath. He leant forward, resting his head on hers. "You're more than a friend to me, Sara. Much more. You're my anchor and my strength and my hope and I... I think... No, I _know_ I'm falling for you. I never thought I could. After Miranda, I never even considered the possibility of falling for someone else. Of falling in _love_ with someone else. I know you care for me. I'm not expecting anything more than that. Not right now. I know you have your own pain to deal with first. I will be your friend. I will be your lover. I will be whatever you need me to be. And perhaps, when... if... you think you might be ready to try falling in love again, I'll be here. Waiting."

It was Sara's turn to breathe deeply, but she found she could hardly breathe at all. He had laid it out before her: the future she and Gideon had talked about. He had handed her the reins and told her to choose a path. Any path. The future she was so terrified of messing up was now totally in her hands. And she couldn't find the air in her lungs to speak. She reached up and kissed him, one hand resting on either side of his face. When she ran out of air for that, she rocked back on her heels, breathing heavily. Time to pick a label. Her mind spun back to the way Gideon had talked of them as if they already were a couple, with or without choosing to define themselves as such.

"Lovers, then," she said, her breathing recovering. "But lovers that were friends first."

"I can live with that," he murmured holding her close and trailing soft kisses down the side of her neck. "Can I remove this damn halterneck collar now?"

"There are three ties at the back of my neck," Sara murmured, sighing in disappointment as he moved past the area the collar covered. "They're holding the collar up. I think they're what's holding the dress up too. My hands are shaking too much."

"Do you still trust me?" Rip whispered in her ear.

"Yes," responded Sara, before she even began to consider the question. "Always."

She felt the hand that was on her back slide up and tip her head forward, nestling it into his shoulder. Her eyes closed, she breathed him in. Warm, familiar, home. Her breathing sharpened only slightly at the touch of a cold steel blade, sliding against the soft skin at the nape of her neck, slicing through the three knotted strands holding the collar, and dress, in place. The collar slid down, releasing her neck. The dress didn't. She was pressed too close to him, held too tightly, for it to go anywhere. Right now she wouldn't have cared if it did. Not here. Not with him. She heard him place the knife down on the table nearby. The sound was unfamiliar.

"That wasn't one of mine," she murmured, leaving the question hanging in the air between them.

"It was mine," he breathed into her ear, the hint of a smile playing in his voice. "It was my only protector long before you ever showed up. Or the bloody Time Masters. I've been reminding myself how to use it. Somebody's been trying to get me to improve my fighting skills after all."

Sara laughed, and this time the laugh did reach her eyes, running her hands through his hair as he worked his way down her neck again. She sighed when his mouth reached the sensitive spot the collar had been covering, aware that she was melting into him again, forgetting everything else around them. The world drifted away. It came flooding back a second later.

"Shit!" Sara swore, aware that her knees were suddenly threatening to betray her. "Rip, that's gonna leave a mark!"

His arm had tightened around her the second he felt her knees buckle. When he spoke, he was as breathless as she, but she could still hear the smug little smirk that tinged his voice every time he felt her body react to him. Only him. "Boundaries? Or are you just worried the others will find out?"

She felt him press a myriad of tiny kisses to the area. They didn't help the situation with her knees at all. "Are we ready for them to find out?"

"They don't have to," he gasped, resting his head alongside hers. "It's where the collar was. They would assume you got it on the mission."

Sara paused, breathing heavily and still not trusting her legs. The nails of one hand were digging into his shoulder hard enough to leave marks of their own, the fingers of the other tangled in his hair. He was right. Given the mission she had just been on, and if they were careful, the others wouldn't question it. And there would be another secret between them to smile about across the holotable at briefings, or the kitchen at mealtimes, or anywhere. Something that marked her as his, just like the bruises her nails were leaving marked him as hers. Something that only they shared. Something that only they understood.

"It's gonna show now anyway," she decided, her mouth curling into a smile. "You might as well make it worth it."


	51. A Time To Kill

"Do we have it?" Rip's impatient tones snapped through the comms. "Will one of you please just give me a straightforward yes or no!"

"Yes, we got it!" Sara snapped back. "But we've got a tiny bit more than that too!"

"Not all that tiny!" Mick's voice rumbled quietly.

"What kind of person has a super-high-tech bunker filled with all manner of weird and incomprehensible devices?" Ray muttered almost automatically.

"Nerd junk," corrected Mick, "and I'm sure you can't wait to comprehense it, Haircut!"

Three voices muttered in unison. "Comprehend."

"We have the future tech we were after," sighed Rip, foreseeing a similar difficulty to removing a kid from a candy store. "Is there anything else there that should concern us?"

"Ooh, Captain, I, er, I really would have to take a closer look," stuttered Ray, and Rip could quite easily imagine the inventor rubbing his hands in glee at this. "I mean some of these might be from this era, just state of the art..."

"Gideon!" Rip called out, swinging round to lean back on the console and look up in blatant appeal.

"I have only detected one aberration, Captain," smiled Gideon's ever-pleasant tones, "however, it does not appear that simply removing the fabricator from this time period is enough to correct it. The ship from which it was originally taken must also be removed, or destroyed, along with its captain."

"You want us to kill somebody?" Ray's voice winced.

"Finally!" Mick growled.

"No!" Rip yelled peremptorily through the comms. "Do not do anything of the kind, Mister Rory! Don't you dare! It is merely the ship that must be removed _or_ destroyed, along with the remains of its occupant or occupants _should_ they already be deceased. Otherwise, we bring them with us. Alive!"

"Spoilsport," grumbled the arsonist.

"Look on the bright side, Mister Rory," sighed the captain. "If all goes to plan, you will undoubtedly get to burn _something_!"

"Do we have a plan?" Sara wondered aloud.

"Er, of a sort," shrugged Rip, turning back to the console. "Gideon, can you locate either the ship or its captain?"

"I have already located the ship some three kilometres to the north of the city, Captain Hunter," the AI informed him. "I'm afraid I cannot detect any life signs nearby or within the vessel. It appears to be of Time Master construction, but of a design prior to that of the Waverider."

"Probably only one passenger then," nodded Rip.

"Not if they switched sides," corrected Sara. "Ray: don't wander off! Mick: go after him. Make sure he doesn't trip any self-destruct sequences."

"Yes, that would not be good," mused Rip, studying the ceiling for inspiration. "Nor would the self-destruct sequence, actually. I hate it when people use those things. Rather overly-melodramatic, don't you think."

"You're babbling, Hunter," grinned Sara's voice in his ear. "What's your plan?"

"You have the jump ship," he replied, still staring upward. "Get the fabricator on board and meet us at the stranded ship. Gideon: send the co-ordinates through. We'll see what clues we can find there while all is quiet, then we'll deal with the problem of our missing captain and whether or not there were any other passengers on board."

"Er, Captain?" Ray's voice broke in.

"No, you cannot bring back a souvenir, Doctor Palmer," Rip sighed, his eyelids dropping of their own volition. "Nor you, Mister Rory..."

"Tell that to the guy strapped to the chair!" Mick interrupted.

Rip's eyes shot open. "What?"

XXXX

"Thou art a villain! And thy beer is cat's water!" John Heminges raged at the closed alehouse door.

"I see now why you do not often drink where you sleep, Master Shakespeare," Sly commented, catching the manager when he stumbled over a loose cobble. "'Tis wisdom. No man would be foolish enough to lay his head where later wake and miss't he may!"

"None but our Jack when he is in his cups!" Will sighed, throwing his friend's other arm over his shoulders and helping Sly lead him down the street. "A sharper man wi' numbers ne'er crossed my door, nor faster running tongue on theatre floor, but by heaven the drink doth thicken him!"

"Like mustard," slurred Heminges. "From Tewkesbury."

"As thick as Tewkesbury mustard?" Shakespeare laughed. "Thy tongue or thy wits, thou old fool? I'll remind you of that when you least expect it, friend John."

"'Tis odd, is't not, that one so... quick-witted... would slow his reason with cheap ale so oft?" Sly mused, steering Heminges round a puddle. "Has he always been thus?"

"Hah! No," Will shook his head. "Old Jack is only so when fortune's fickle hand deprives him of his wife and mistress both."

"'Od's blood, he has a mistress too? And still he letches after every wench he sees!"

"Had," corrected Will. "She left him upon Saint Stephen's day, while yet wert thou cloistered in my lodgings. His wife is crossed in her endeavours to console him. Therefore he seeks distraction from his heart's deep sorrow 'most everywhere."

"A clement wife that shares her husband thus!"

"Their marriage is a horse of a different colour," hummed Will. "Besides, what choice doth a wife have? But not a word to young Henry. In truth, I tell thee only 'pon necessity, else would'st I have kept mine own friend's secret to the grave. Sweet Hal is an innocent and is new in matrimony. 'A must find his own way, neither mine nor Jack's, and as like as not wilt be th' happier for't. To each his own, and to Jack's loving wife we must now render up this 'sotted strife. The journey thither is not a short one. Come, tell me, friend William: what papers wert thee this day perusing so punctiliously in the tiring house? They were none of mine."

William Sly glanced down at the street beneath them. The moonlight reflected off rain-glazed cobblestones. "They were mine own, or so my hand doth tell. The scattered memories that, by careful husbandry, I have collected through my travels. They are as yet unfamiliar to me, for the greater part, and belike many are little more than fevered dreams."

Shakespeare nodded, stumbling slightly under the increasing weight of his friend. "Who knows what dreams may come when man is wracked with fever. But he doth not record his dreams nor mem'ries before the fever comes. Hath this thief deprived thee of them before?"

"I believe it has," nodded Sly. "Once, mayhap, or more. By the telling of these tales I may find the balm to heal my ever shattered mind."

"I have heard tell of bold Crusaders who, return'd from the far south with such ague, though never have I yet heard tell of one with thy degree of bleak oblivion," frowned Will. "My friend, thou can'st not suffer in mine eyes. Come: tell me of these fev'rish fantasies."

"'Tis odd," mused William slyly, "but I feel I need not tell so much as explain them to you, sir."

Shakespeare grinned. "What gave me away? I was e'er an excellent thief!"

"Takes one to know one," smirked Sly with a slight tip of his head. "The harping on about stories to inspire you was a hint of a clue, especially as thy tongue becomes more formal when e'er it cleaveth to dissemble, and the generosity and freehanded nature of your sanctuary suggested you were surer of your reward than any man ought. Aside from this, you left the pages in the wrong order. They look random. They are not."

"I humbly beg thy forgiveness, my good sir," bowed Will, with some difficulty considering his besotted burthen.

"For stealing a look at my private memories?" Sly inquired, one eyebrow delicately arching. "Or for doing such so poorly you got caught?"

"Both?" Will shrugged, unrepentant. "I told you once: I am an uncommon curious man. I can leave no stone unturned in the search for a goodly tale. Fine paper in a hidden pouch hides more than a tale or two in my experience! I pray you: tell me of this damsel you dream of. This fighting woman who shares her name with Abram's wife. Tell me, if you can, how you met this brave Hippolyta and if, like Theseus, you wooed her and won her before e'er your illness stole her from your mind."

XXXX

Rip hung back as Mick and Ray transported the limp body of the unknown man from the jump ship to the Waverider and then on to the medical bay, his eyes narrowing as they followed the trio.

"Quit glaring: he was like that when they found him," Sara ordered, closing the door of the jump ship behind her and handing the fabricator to Rip. "Do you really think I'd have said it was urgent if it wasn't?"

"Well, no," admitted Rip, leaning back against the wall, the hesitation obvious nevertheless.

"But?"

"Mister Rory does seem to like knocking people out and he is rather adept at it..."

"He hit you once," replied Sara, grinning at the memory of the second thing that hadn't gone quite according to plan the day they recruited Rex. Apparently simulations don't punch quite as hard as the real thing.

"Who hasn't!" Rip's eyebrows flicked upwards.

"And there was that other time during a fight, but it was by accident," Sara added, shrugging and strolling off down the corridor.

"No, that was Ray," he corrected her, pushing himself off the wall to catch up.

"Oh yeah," Sara chuckled.

"Not funny!" Rip muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he caught up, the fabricator under one arm.

"It kinda was," she informed him, lines of amusement forming at eyes and lips. "You should have seen _both_ your faces!"

Rip bristled. "One does not expect to be punched in the face by a comrade, accident or no."

" _One_ does not, but this is you we're talking about," pointed out Sara. "Weren't we supposed to be doing something about that?"

"Something keeps distracting me," he mused, striding along with a purpose. "Can't think what!"

"I guess I'll just have to get a little stricter with your training then," smirked Sara.

"What? Like _actually_ spending the whole time training?"

"In fairness," she grinned, "we do always start out with the intention of spending the whole time training."

"Yes, well, we all know which road good intentions pave," quipped Rip.

Sara let her face and voice become all innocence. "We could always schedule an extra session?"

"For the training or..." Rip's lip curled at the corner and he let the sentence trail off.

A siren blared and the corridor plunged into darkness.

"What the..." Sara began.

Gideon's voice, in tones familiar yet alien, chimed out through the ship. "Druce protocol initiated. Full system lock down in progress. Life support decreasing to minimal. Please stand by to be terminated."

"Ah," Rip's shoulders slumped in the darkness. "Bollocks."

XXXX

A cold drizzle filled the air, chilling Sly and Shakespeare to the bone on their road home from returning Heminges to his house, his bed, and his wife. The good woman had entreated the pair to stay and spend the night but, with their garments already wet through and, Shakespeare's lodgings being the closer of the two, the two men had assured her they would more comfortably pass the night thither where, devoid of female company, they could dry their clothes more easily by the fire and continue their conference without fear of waking the household. Chattering teeth and hurrying feet had stolen the breath from any tales that might have been told on the way. The witching hour had chimed before the door was bolted fast against the ill night and the two men wrapped in blankets while their clothes dried.

"Thou didst tell me plain, dear friend William, when yoked were we below our heavy burthen..." Will trailed off. Sly was watching him with one eyebrow raised and his head on one side. Shakespeare cleared his throat. "You told me earlier, William, of the woman who haunts your dreams: this Sara. Yet the tales you tell are all of battles in a war, it seems. One, perhaps that my Kate and her Petruchio would have rivalled, but that there appears neither winner nor loser in't."

"Must there be? Always?" Sly blinked, the warm fire and late hour slowing his mind and drawing a drowsiness over him.

"Perhaps it is merely mine own experience that has taught me thus."

"Perhaps you should do something about that."

"Perhaps," acknowledged Shakespeare, tipping his head at this. "Perhaps I am."

Sly smiled at the obvious hint. "If there was a war betwixt us, it was a merry one. I recall no feelings of enmity towards her, or from her towards myself, beyond those few encounters. We understood each other. We may not always have agreed, but we at least understood. Occasionally we understood loudly and at length, but we always parted as friends."

"And none of your company supposed you to be more than simply friends?"

"There is nothing simple about friends," quipped William.

"Not where women are involved, certainly," parried Will.

"Mick, maybe," Sly nodded in honest answer to the query. "He feels closest to me in my mind. The others I cannot now remember. They come and go, as if their presence was light and my health the inconstant moon, first waxing then waning as the fever draws nigh again. And yet the moon above is a more constant thing than mine, for it is in my mind that, though the times between my new moons may lengthen, so too will the shadows cast by them until all is eclipsed in darkness and I will have naught of my memories but the papers around my neck."

"What do you remember of them?" Shakespeare frowned. "And what of your previous days of health? Do you yet recall how you came to our shores?"

"But that came I from Jerusalem," mused Sly, frowning in thought and shaking his head. "The city, not the alehouse, for such sign is not an uncommon sight here. For my days there, I do have some pictures in mind to bolster the reports of my papers. For my far distant friends, I know not what is truth and what wild imagination. One name all at once brings the image of a girl, a woman and a wing'd angel; another likewise angel, man and boy. And yet for both of these my memory doth claim the youngest incarnation be the nearest in my broken history. I know not why two faces, young and old, merge to become one man with fire enrobed, nor how one man may shrink unto the size of a peascod and be a fool, yet wise. Nor how he then returneth to full height, or how my mem'ries queen, all robed in white, fights fiercer much than any man I've known. I fear I paint an ass-head of mine own, but fading fast are these odd folk and she like dew in thy midsummer comedy."

"Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Mote and Mustardseed were never so fantastical indeed," agreed Will. "Perhaps 'tis dreams we lack. Certes, 'tis sleep. The aged moon within the sky doth keep. Th'impish Puck doth weave his magic in my brain. Sleep now, William, ere morning comes again."

XXXX

Darkness flooded the Waverider. Darkness and death. The hiss of it filled the ears of the team. In the kitchen, Jesse was the first to start coughing, the contagion filling her lungs and speeding through her system like wildfire. As she fell, Martin staggered, putting out a hand to the absent wall. Between them, Jax reached out, seeking both but finding neither as he too collapsed, coughing, to the ground. At a table, Amaya slumped forward, the darkness conquering her mind. By the medbay bed, Ray sank to his knees, hands fighting to keep their hold on the rail, on consciousness, on life. Opposite him, Rex supported a sagging Mick, demanding answers from the only person left to give them.

""What's happening Mister Rory? What's going on?" Rex demanded, the weight upon him becoming ever more a dead one.

"It's the virus," hacked Mick, struggling for air. "Druce's virus. It attacks all living cells but his own. This bastard we picked up must be him. A younger him. That's the trigger. His DNA. We have the antidote. It's in the blue box in the antivirals cupboard. One vial each. You gotta wait though. Wait 'til we're dead. But you only got six minutes after that to get to us. Brain damage. Oxygen."

"But why me?" Rex pushed, hearing the sound of Doctor Palmer finally collapsing to the floor. The weight of Mister Rory on his shoulder was almost more than he could take now.

"Yer an android, Harry," chortled Mick in his best, or worst, Hagrid impression. "You ain't alive."

The strongest of the Legends sank to a crumpled heap on the medbay floor. Rex Tyler felt about him for the door to the emergency cupboard by the bed. He grabbed a flashlight and almost tripped over the unconscious body of Mick Rory. The antivirals cupboard wasn't hard to locate, even without Gideon. He was a doctor. A medical doctor. He had taken the time to get to know his domain and supplies. The blue box sat front and centre at his eye level, as if they had known he would be the one left to use it. Of course they had known. Mick Rory had known. He had known everything he needed to pass on to Rex how to save them. So why hadn't they told him before? Told him what? That he wasn't real? That he was just a robot? Was he? He wasn't affected by the virus. Maybe he was just immune.

Rex shook his head and grabbed the box. Whatever he was would have to wait. Doctor Palmer and Mister Rory were here with him, but nobody else was. It had been well into the afternoon when the jump ship had reported its mission complete. Rex checked Doctor Palmer's pulse. It was non-existent. He injected a vial of the serum into his fellow scientist and darted round the bed to Mister Rory. He felt the pulse slow and stop, then injected the antivirus. If the rest of the crew weren't on the bridge, he thought, they would be in the kitchen. It had been a long day so far and none of them had eaten since breakfast. But the kitchen was a floor above the medbay, on the same level as the sleeping quarters, and time was of the essence. He reached for his belt. He may not need an injection of the same serum as the rest of the team, but the miraclo serum would make sure he got to them in time and in this light it might help him spot them too. And, if he really was an android, a robot, why worry about the side effects?

The bridge was empty. The kitchen wasn't. Rex dealt out four more doses of the antivirus to the scattered inhabitants and looked around in dismay. There were two vials left. Two faces he had not yet found. Captain Hunter and Miss Lance. He searched the rest of the kitchen and dining area. Nothing. He returned to the bridge and searched the Captain's office. Still nothing. In darkness, alone, without even Gideon to help, the man of the hour wracked his brain for answers.

XXXX

"William, I need you!" Shakespeare's voice called through the tiring house.

"Well, I've heard that before," drawled Sly, stepping out from the carpenter's workroom and brushing sawdust from his hands, "but never in a place like this."

"Peace, thou roguish, idle-headed miscreant!" Will grinned, grabbing his fellow's arm and leading him to another part of the tiring house. "Jack hath deserted us, or, truth be told, his sodden wits have now deserted him. What e'er ale he drank last night poisons still his mind. Thou art of sim'lar shape and form and thou knowest well his words..."

"What do you want?" Sly looked askance at his benefactor and friend. "I cannot play Jack's part in this: he plays a prince! Burbage would be better suited to the task!"

"'A plays the king and title role, as e'er," pointed out Shakespeare, hurrying Sly into the room where Heminges costume hung ready. "Thou art the only man as knows the lines and can deliv'r them with any sur'ty. Wouldst thou have me make Cuthbert my Prince Hal?"

"Take the role upon thyself, thou poet!" Sly complained. "Thou knowest well the fit and form o' it!"

Shakespeare handed him the costume, bundling it into his arms apace. "Thou knowest well I have mine own, thou churl!"

"I have not the skill, thou painted coxcombe!"

"Thou hast skill enough, thou mewling coward!"

"Be wary, Will: there's names I'll not abide."

"Then show thy face and meet me at stage-side!"


	52. A Time to Revive

Sara started coughing first. She was the stronger of the two of them, he thought, but she was still smaller. Druce's virus took less time to work its way though her system than his. He wasn't far behind her though. Even as he helped ease her collapse to the cold metal floor he felt his own head spinning. The world, the universe, was roaring in his ears as his knees landed beside her. He gasped for air, but air would not come. It felt like an elephant had placed one large, round, grey foot on his chest and was starting, ever so gently, to press down. He hadn't even air to cry out now. The roaring in his ears was growing, pounding against his skull as if it might break it. In the darkness he had been able to see nothing. Now he could. Spots and flashes of light danced across his vision until even they blurred. A small, delicate, gentle, lethal hand found his, sliding down his wrist until palm met palm and fingers intertwined. He could not see her. He could say nothing to comfort her, hear nothing to comfort him. They were totally alone, separated from each other but for that one point of contact. He squeezed her hand. Softly. Gently. With all the strength he had left to muster. He was there. As much as possible, he was there.

The grip on his hand loosened and went limp.

She was gone.

XXXX

Spring turned into summer, bringing with it the stench of the Thames and the annual influx of obedient country squires and their families, desperate to dance attendance on their queen. As the number of nobles ascended, so too did the number of requests for performances. The Lord Chamberlain's men were well known, both for their plays and for their playwright, and were kept busy for all of the season. Tales old and new were told from the stage of the Curtain, and from the stages raised in the many grand houses they visited. Comedies, tragedies and histories unwound themselves before William Sly's eyes. For the most part he was the book man, reading the lines silently as they were said, and mouthing them quietly when they were not. Often, he would portray some small character whose lines were few and costume simple. Leonardo in the Merchant of Venice; the ghost of Henry VI in Richard III; Philostrate and Egeus in A Midsummer Night's Dream; the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet; Mercadé in Love's Labours Lost; Balthasar in A Comedy of Errors; Sir Piers Exton in Richard II. As time went by, however, he found himself being given gradually greater roles. Roles of substance. Sometimes he was merely an understudy for Heminges. Sometimes he found himself on stage beside him. Henry Percy in Richard II, often followed by the part of Harry "Hotspur" Percy in the newly penned Henry IV; the quick-tongued Berowne in Love's Labours Lost; Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet; Richmond in Richard III; Demetrius in A Midsummer Night's Dream. He even took on the role of Valentine in the years old comedy Two Gentlemen of Verona.

The roles and the plays mounted up, one on top of the other, until they filled his mind. When time and memory allowed, he would sit with Will in the warmth of his own rooms or his mentor's and talk through the strange and dreamlike writings he kept still in the pouch around his neck. Sometimes he even added to them, if time, paper, pens and ink allowed. There was much to be done. So very much. With every passing day and week he felt his memories slipping further and further from his grasp. By the time the cool breezes and golden leaves of autumn arrived, and the company left the city behind to tour the great houses of the provinces, William Sly was convinced the words hidden around his neck told of nothing more substantial than a dream.

XXXX

Air flooded back into Rip's lungs. He sat bolt upright, coughing and dragging air in like it was cool water in a desert. 

"Sara!" Rip half yelled, half coughed, rolling on to his knees and feeling for the hand that was no longer in his.

It wasn't there. _She_ wasn't there! How could she not be there? Where was Rex, with the antivirus serum they had prepared for this very occasion? Where was everyone, for that matter? Shouldn't they all be awake again before him? Surely he and Sara were the last the doctor had reached?

A new blackness engulfed Rip, freezing him from the soul out. What if Rex hadn't reached them? They had been dying, their cells starved of one of the very elements they were made from. He had almost died before. He had opened his eyes then in the very spot he had closed them; looked around at the very chaos he had created. Was this like that? There were no Miranda and Jonas here to greet him this time, if it were. But maybe their time had passed. That day, on the bridge, crashing through the crucible of the chromosphere, he had said goodbye to them, and they to him. They had left him. Gone on ahead without him. Shouldn't there be something though? Someone?

"Sara?" Rip called out. If anyone were to be waiting for him in this afterlife, surely it should be her? She died first. He had felt her hand grow cold in his. She should be here. "Sara?"

Light blossomed in the corridor, bringing with it the quiet susurrus of mechanical life. The fabricator unit lay discarded on the floor. "Captain Hunter."

Rip looked up, startled. "Gideon? You're here?"

"As always, Captain," coaxed the gentle voice of the AI. "I believe you would wish to know: Miss Lance is in the medical bay, being attended by Doctor Tyler and Professor Stein. The rest of the crew are fully conscious and show no ill effects of my additional programming. I am so very sorry for putting you through that, Captain."

"Not your fault Gideon," answered Rip, breathing out a great sigh of air. Then the air seemed to freeze in his lungs. "Why is Sara in the medical bay?"

"Due to unforeseen circumstances, Doctor Tyler had difficult reaching yourself and Miss Lance within the six minute window, Captain," Gideon faithfully reported. "Although he administered the serum to Miss Lance first, her heart had still not restarted by the time he had done so to you. He checked your pulse and found it strong, then felt you take a breath, but Miss Lance still had not revived. Therefore, Doctor Tyler brought Miss Lance to the medical bay for further treatment. Her heart has restarted, and she is breathing for herself now, but she has not regained consciousness."

" _Yet_ , Gideon," corrected Rip, breaking into an echoing run down the hallway. "She has not regained consciousness _yet_!"

XXXX

Rip tumbled into the medical bay, body still struggling to keep up with the newly increased demand for oxygen it was not done repaying yet. His head spun, the room tilting round him like a fairground ride. He paused, clinging to the doorframe for support and blinking hard. Professor Stein grabbed his elbow and helped him into the other adjustable bed, currently in chair position. Rip nodded his thanks and sat sideways, looking over to the prone figure on the more horizontal bed nearby.

Golden hair splayed out across the headrest, curling around a face half covered in a mask. The mask needed to be there, he knew. It monitored her breathing and, should the pause between breaths become too lengthy, it would breathe for her too. He knew the others in the room needed to be there too. The doctor, leaning over his patient, injecting something into a vein. The doctor's assistant, the Professor, walking back to the screen he had been monitoring. The faithful friend, Mick Rory, leaning back against the wall opposite him, glaring at him over Rex's bent back. Glaring at him. The words registered in Rip's half-suffocated brain. He sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing at the arsonist.

"She was supposed to be right behind us," growled Mick, his dagger-sharp gaze not even flinching. "Why wasn't she?"

"What?" Rip blinked, his brows knotting. "Why is that..."

"Because if she had been," cut in Mick, voice heavy with the roll of distant thunder, a storm on the horizon threatening to blow in, "she woulda been here when the virus hit. And if she'd been here already, the doc wouldn't have had to search half the ship to find her. He'd have given her the antidote first. She'd be fine by now. So what happened? Why was she still with you?"

Rip shook his head. Like everything else around him - everything except, perhaps, Mick's stare - the memories were fuzzy. "We were talking."

Mick pushed himself off the wall and walked round to tower over the captain. He leant down and rumbled into Rip's ear. "You'd better pray your 'talking' don't get her killed, English!"

The arsonist disappeared out through the door, heavy footsteps receding slowly. Much too slowly for Rip's liking. The captain turned his attention back to Sara, still unmoving on the bed. He scrambled over and leant on the edge of it, the tips of his fingers daring to brush the back of her right hand.

"Time to wake up now, Miss Lance," he managed, forcing more cheer into his voice than he thought possible. "Can't have you lying around all day. Not when there's work to be done."

"Her heart and lungs are fully operational," nodded Rex, discarding the syringe. "I've given her as much adrenaline as I dare, but her cortisol levels are inordinately high. I've never seen levels like this in someone with Miss Lance's training."

"Doctor, I'd be amazed if you'd _met_ anyone with Miss Lance's training," Professor Stein interjected, handing him a tablet.

"I don't understand this," Rex shook his head. "This shouldn't be happening. She should be awake by now."

Rip's heart sank. He felt sick. The strength seeped out of him like water from a cloth bag. "Miss Lance, wake up! Wake up, Sara, that's an order! Wake up!"

Time slouched by, dragging the seconds out into hours.

"Come on, Sara, wake up!" Rip begged. "Please, wake up!"

"The brain is a complex thing, Captain," consoled Martin, a hand coming to rest on Rip's shoulder. "You should rest. You were very nearly in the same boat as our dear Miss Lance here."

"Rather me than her," muttered Rip, shaking off Martin's hand.

"Nevertheless," agreed Doctor Tyler, turning his attention to the patient he had abandoned, "Professor Stein is right, Captain. It was over six minutes from the onset of the Druce Protocol. Your brain has suffered considerably greater levels of hypoxia than anyone else on the crew."

"Anyone except Sara, you mean," Rip nodded at the silent figure.

"Precisely, which is why you must let us take care of you too, Captain," Martin remonstrated, attempting to steer the captain away from the bed.

"She'll wake up," announced Rip, his jaw setting. "I'm not budging until she does."

"It could be days, Captain," sighed Martin.

"Then it'll be days," retorted Rip.

XXXX

"Tell me again, dear William, of the strange faces that haunt your dreams," spake Shakespeare, passing a cup of ale to his companion as they sat by his hearth. "You told me once the telling of the tale did make it real, yet now the stories from your mind doth steal."

"I tell thee true, 'tis no more than a dream," answered Sly, stretching out long legs towards the fire. The night was chill and snow lined the streets of London. His boots were damp and cold withall and the warm fire was much to his liking.

"Yet when you told me first, so real did seem these people to you that you wept for love of them. You told me then that they would fade: melt from your mind and turn into a shade. You know yourself that every paper there tells something true. I thought you would not dare to leave behind these figments of your mind who teach you how your own true self to find."

"My friend, I cannot answer for the thought," Sly shook his head solemnly, peering down into the fire, "that fades from sun-kissed vision into naught. I know I said as much: I still recall the speech we shared when thou to me didst call; when sat we here on balmy summer nights, or walked we home aft' all our tavern fights; when winter drew his captaincy all nigh, and cold winds though the shutters then didst sigh; when evening's price demanded tale be told, and clumsy mem'ries from my mind unfold. Then did I speak of all my heart could tell. Belike, methinks, I knew each tale too well. Now like the aged minstrel whose songs fade, I fear the hist'ries of a mind decayed."

"You riddle prettily, good Lysander," smiled Will, his eyes narrowing. "Mayhap 'twas the wrong lover I had you play."

"Thou knowest well it was," purred Sly, removing his warming feet from the hearth before the heat became too much.

"You think your lady will not await your return?" Will asked, eyes flitting over William's face. "That she has given you up for dead?"

"My lady is a dream, far beyond my reach," murmured Sly, still staring into the fire. "A dream from which I feel myself awaking."

"Then you no longer love her?" Shakespeare pushed.

"Can a man love a dream?"

"Aye, an he feed it courtesies withall."

"Un-poet thy tongue, Will: speak plain."

"A man may live within a dream, if only he has the imagination to keep it alive."

"Then how knows he the dream from the reality?"

"We choose our own reality, day by day," said Shakespeare, leaning forward to his friend. "I mine, where I am a bachelor and free from grief and loss. Thee thine, where thou art what you will. I have no proof to give you, my friend, that you do not already bear about your neck. All I know is that once upon an April eve, you swore to me those tales were true; that they were the truth of your existence; that in their pages lived the memories of all your friends, family and foes; and that their very purpose was simply this: to remind you who you were when all else did begin to fade."

"So do you swear?"

"So do I swear," nodded Will. "You have told me tales of heroes and villains, lovers and warriors, leaders and rogues. You have given me matter for a dozen plays, each with their own cast of characters. They build themselves castles in the airy space of my imagination, yet never do they grow so solid in my mind as when you speak of them. These are not figments to you: they are people. People whom you have loved, and people you have hated, but still people! Real! Tangible! Do not let them slip from your mind!"

"I try, but ere I conjure up one face another disappears like smoke!" William raised a hand to his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I pray you: talk not on't. My brain burns within my skull."

"You are ill?"

"A mere minor malady," William waved away Will's concern but still did not look at him. "It will pass."

Will's attention flitted then to the ring on William's finger. "That is a bauble I have not seen you wear before. Yet it seems to me familiar..."

"'Twas a gift given by one of our patrons o'er the summer months," shrugged William.

"Indeed," Will tipped his head to one side. "I do believe I have seen the Lord Tremayne's wife wear such a thing ere now."

"Belike 'twas from her I had it. What name had she?"

"The honourable Lady Alexa Tremayne," replied Will, watching William intently. "Doth it recall anything to your mind?"

William shook his head, peering down at the ring. It was a simple, broad silver band with, set into the centre of the band, a small ice blue stone.

"Were not the Tremaynes burgled?" Will mused, leaning back in his chair to gaze up at the ceiling, a frowned playing over his face as he tugged at his beard. "Some few weeks after we didst play our newest offering at their London lodgings."

"No, 'twas not they," Sly shook his head. "There were a good many robberies of our patrons' grand houses while Apollo held sway over the night sky. In that lingering half-light that leaks around the edges of the world while he fights with his sister Dian for prominence, much can be accomplished without need for torch. But no, their home did not suffer the same fate."

"A good many robberies?" Will echoed. "Why, indeed there were. Always did they seem so soon after we had left!"

"Sooner after our friends the Admiral's Men had left them," Sly replied, tipping his head briefly to the side.

Will watched him again, studying his favourite puzzle's face for clues. "You believe our rivals were the cause of the thefts?"

"'Twas not our performances that were followed by such an epilogue," shrugged Sly. He opened his mouth to speak again but froze, the breath falling silently from his lips. His eyes flitted up to Shakespeare's once more. Now they were cold, hard and sharp as ice. "Do you expect company this night?"

Shakespeare frowned and listened. The sounds of booted feet ascended the stairs beyond the door. "No more than the ghosts of my past returning now to haunt me."

The door opened. "Well said, husband, of mine own love denied; beshrew thy heart and welcome now thy bride."

XXXX

"I love you," he mused, rolling the whisky around in its glass, his eyes caressing every line of her body. "I know it's not what you want to hear - what you _need_ to hear - but it's true. I'm in love with you. I never thought I could love anyone ever again after Miranda. Not like that. To love only one person in a lifetime is blessing enough, but to love a second? I thought it impossible.

"I know you must think me mad for allowing myself to fall again, but that's not how it works, Sara. You don't get to choose. And I know to love someone is to risk pain and heartache - I know that better than anyone! - but to refuse to love? To close oneself off to the possibility? You only close yourself off from the joy and happiness it brings. Believe me: if I could choose, go back and stop myself from marrying Miranda, having Jonas, I would not give up those happy days for a world of heartache and torment, no matter how few they were.

"I'm not expecting you to love me back. We said that: no expectations. I just needed you to know. I felt you die today, Sara. I watched you lie there not knowing if I would ever be able to say anything to you again. After all that, I needed to tell you, to say it out loud. I don't think I ever have before."

"No," murmured Sara, watching him from across the nocturnal stillness of the office. Her skin tingled where his eyes drifted over it. "No, you never have."

Rip stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, sauntering over with the air of a child admitting to a wrong. He stopped in front of Sara, so close he could feel the warmth of her seeping into him, bringing him back to life. Rescuing him. Soft lips turned up to him, uncertain whether to smile or be serious; waiting, waiting for him to make the next move. His eyes drifted up to meet hers and held them, willing captives. "I know you're not in that place right now, Sara. I understand. We started this to escape the darkness inside ourselves. The darkness that drags us down every day, each in its own way. You feel its pull more than I do, but I still feel it too. The only difference is I'm not drowning in it any more, Sara; and that's all because of you. You rescued me. Even in the midst of your own pain, you were the light in my darkness that guided me back to life. Even though you are still drowning. I see that. I can see it every day. Maybe a little less now than before, but I still see it. And I will drag myself out of my darkness to rescue you from yours. Always. I'm not asking for anything, Sara," he breathed, drowning in the blue, blue depths of those eyes. "I know you don't love me."

Sara held up a hand, letting the slim, delicate fingers come to rest on his lips. He kissed them. Her eyelids fluttered closed. When they opened, clear blue eyes met green like the blue sky meets the forest, with nothing to keep them apart. "Yet."


	53. A Time to Fall

"You could have got us all killed!" Rip yelled, following hot on Sara's heels as she marched through the corridors of the ship.

"I didn't, did I?" Sara snapped back, refusing to stop or look at him. The mission had been a simple one, handed out by Luke at the Vanishing Point to retrieve some materials needed for construction of the new base. It should not have gone so badly and Sara knew it.

"Jax and the Professor are both in the medical bay!" Rip pointed out, struggling to keep pace with the considerably shorter woman.

"They just got knocked out!" Sara retorted, as much to convince herself as anyone. "They'll be fine: Gideon said so!"

"You know damn well it could have been a lot worse!" Rip shouted, every inch the autocratic captain he had been in the Savage days. That brought her to a halt at least, even if she still didn't turn.

"But it wasn't!" Sara persisted, throwing out her hands.

"Not the point!" Rip thundered, stepping closer to her than any wise man would in the circumstances.

"Then what is?" Sara enquired loudly, whipping round and finding herself almost nose to nose with him.

"I have seen you fight, Miss Lance!" Rip countered, matching her hard stare and not backing down. "I have watched you fight! On numerous occasions! I've seen you fight on an empty stomach, a sleepless night, a hangover... I've even seen you fight drunk! In not one of those circumstances did I ever see you as distracted and off your game as today. It was like you were sleepwalking! You've never gone out there in that state before! You've never endangered your _team_ before!"

"Yeah, well, I guess there's a first time for everything!" Sara retorted. "Besides: you don't know the team wouldn't have been hurt worse without me there! Maybe it wouldn't just be Jax and the Professor lying in the medbay right now if I'd stayed here instead!"

Rip was starting to feel his own anger rise, taking over from the concern that had prompted him to follow her. "Maybe there wouldn't be anyone lying there at all!"

"Yeah: maybe you'd all be lying out _there_ in the field," she shot back, her voice harsh and cold. "Dead!"

He shook his head vehemently. "Don't turn this back on me!"

"Then what? What, Rip? What do I do?" Sara shrugged, firing out words like bullets. "Apologise? I'm not going to apologise for trying to keep everyone safe and failing, Rip. I did my best. It wasn't good enough. It sucks, but there it is. You start demanding apologies every time someone tries and fails, you're gonna have a long list to get through and that's just on your end!"

"That's hardly fair," he remonstrated, backing off a little and turning away with a sigh. "You know that's not what I want!"

"What do you want, Rip?" Sara closed in on him. "Because you must want something or this conversation is about as pointless as buying a hairbrush for Mick!"

"What I want is for you to talk to me, Sara," he returned, turning back and catching her eyes again. "Something's wrong, so talk to me! Tell me! It's what we do, isn't it? Thee and me? We talk about what's bothering us. And we listen."

She held his gaze for what seemed like forever, fighting the idea that he might actually be right. That she might need to lean on someone right now. On him. Again. Stubborn. Unbearable. Uncompromising. Unmoving. Unbending. Unafraid. Unwavering. Unflinching. Unyielding. And undeniably there. For her. "Today would have been Laurel's birthday."

XXXX

"Wife," Will greeted the newcomer, rising to his feet so rapidly his stool toppled to the floor.

Anne Shakespeare promenaded into the room, circling round her husband until his face was illuminated by the billowing flames from the hearth. "What keeps thee here, my husband, from thy wife? Far from thy children, who should be thy life? What ails thee that thou dost forget us so? That thou hid'st here. For all that I didst know, ere I did set my foot upon thy stair, thy rotten corse might well have met me there."

"My love, thou art forever in my thoughts and never doubt the love I have for thee; nor for my girls, the joy of my dear life. I pray thee, love, bear with my absence long, and take, in place, the fruits of all my work. Thou knowest well what grief dost hide me here, when heart and hearth no longer dare I 'proach."

"Thou coward man, to flee from what we three must face from here unto eternity. Thy daughters twain must comfort now themselves to grieve their brother and their father both."

"I cannot look my daughter in the eye and know how I did let her brother die. Her twin! Whom I see ever in her face, whose 'cusing stare doth lame me in my grace and, haunting thus, doth fill my mind with woe until my person hence from there must go. Oh, loving wife! Do not enforce thy plea, and leave me to mine own indignity: a man beset by grief and dire regret, whose homely duties cannot now be met. Oh, do not ask me now to go live by the place wherein I caused my son to die. Thy humble servant ever will I be, obedient in all but this to thee."

"Thou mak'st of grief excuses to be left to thine own self, and leave thy girls bereft. And yet thou can'st not see how thou dost lie, dissemble and now use thy grief to try and piteously avoid the truth that we thy kin are now of less import to thee than is thy reputation. Selfish man! That turns his mind to writing while he can both profit from his suffering in plays and in the idle comfort of his days. To eat and drink and sleep with whomsoe'er may catch his eye or hold his fancy there."

"Good William Sly, I fear I must request thy pardon, but my wife and I must rest. And as I have but one poor pallet I must ask thee to in thine own lodgings lie. Thy counsel is both wise and well bethought, yet mine own counsel must I keep for naught may come between a husband and a wife when fortune has ordained for them this strife. I would'st not have thee here, my dearest friend, until our conference hath reached an end."

Sly rose, bowing to the lady and his friend. "Thy pardon for my gauche intrusion here. I take my leave; my resting place lies near. We'll carry on our confidence anon when present woes and duties then have gone."

XXXX

Rip woke suddenly, sitting up in bed with a hand to his eyes. The lights were turned up to full brightness and Gideon was calling his name.

"Captain," called the interactive AI again. "I do not wish to alarm you but I believe you are needed in Miss Lance's room."

Rip rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and swung his legs off the bed. "Sara? Is she okay?"

"Miss Lance is asleep," Gideon informed him, making him pause in his attempts to find the arm of his dressing gown and frown upwards until the AI explained. "She is also, however, screaming. I am concerned that she may hurt herself if she is not woken, and she is unresponsive to my attempts to do so."

In view of the way he had been woken up, Rip wondered just what attempts Gideon had made. "I'm on my way. Gideon, tell me: how many knives does our resident assassin sleep with, and where are they?"

He reached Sara's door, barefooted in pyjamas and dressing gown, just as Gideon was opening it. The knives weren't too hard to find, if you took into account dodging Sara's flailing limbs. There was one that proved particularly difficult, under her pillow on the opposite side of her, but he got that too eventually. Finally, there was only one danger left: that of waking an assassin from a nightmare. Even an unarmed one.

"Sara," he called, doing his best to pin down her arms to avoid being punched, even accidentally. "Sara! Wake up, Sara! You're safe. You're on the Waverider. It's just a dream. Wake up!"

He kept calling her name, repeating that it was just a dream, that she was safe, that it was just him, until the thrashing and screaming stopped. Suddenly she sat up and launched herself at him, one arm coming free and reaching for his throat. He leant back and released his hold on her, letting her pin him down.

Gradually her vision cleared and she blinked. "Wha..."

"Yes, I took the liberty of removing the knives _before_ attempting to wake you this time," he managed, struggling to talk while her hand was still on his throat.

Sara sat back, letting go of him. "Rip."

"Last I checked," he quipped, sitting up again and taking her hands in his.

"Why are you here?" Sara asked, frowning at the red mark on his neck.

"Gideon called me," he explained, apparently unconcerned by the nights events so far. "She was worried."

"It was a dream," she murmured, looking away lost in the still present memory.

Rip turned her face back towards him, caressing her cheek with his hand. "Yes."

Instinctively, she leant into his hand. How they'd changed since the first time he had done exactly that. She closed her eyes. "Just a dream."

"Just a dream," he nodded, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on her scraped knuckles. "Want to talk about it?"

She frowned, her eyes still closed. "Did Gideon tell you..."

"Just that you were screaming in your sleep and she was worried you might hurt yourself," he assured her. "And that you refused to wake up when she called you."

"I was on the rooftop, back in Star City, where Thea shot me," Sara began, meeting his eyes at last. "I was watching her shoot me. Watching like I was outside my body, looking on from the side. Except it wasn't Thea shooting, it was Ollie. Then I was down in the alley, watching my body fall. Watching myself land. And then I was just lying there. So still. I didn't want to go over, but something kept pulling me nearer. I knelt down and took the mask off... But it wasn't me. It was Laurel. And then I was back on the rooftop, watching it happen all over again. Only this time it was like slow motion. This time I knew it was Laurel. And this time I tried to run to her. To push her out of the way. But I couldn't. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. I just had to watch her die. Over and over again, I just had to watch her die!"

Rip gathered her into his arms, running his hands through her tangled hair as tears flooded her eyes. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen her cry like this. Really cry, sobbing out the pain and grief until there's nothing left. For the moment, anyway. He knew the depths of that pain, that grief, better than most. It had never left him fully. It probably never would. But had become easier with time. And with her. At first he had been content to be a support for her whenever she needed him. He owed her that. He had denied her the chance to even try saving her sister, a chance he knew would fail and undoubtedly take her down with it. He couldn't risk losing her then. He didn't dare consider the possibility now. Somewhere, in between the midnight therapy sessions, and drinking sessions, he had spotted something that shook him. He needed her too. Needed her strength. Needed her courage. Needed her understanding. Needed her companionship. Then there had been that mission to recruit Rex. The dance. The fake almost-but-not-quite kiss. Then he had realised it. Realised how much more than just friendship he wanted from the woman in his arms. She was his equal. Different strengths, different weaknesses, but his equal in every way that mattered. She was the one person in his life he felt he could truly be himself with because of it. And the moment she kissed him he had felt himself falling. He had put it down to a mere infatuation at first, but slowly he saw the error of his assessment. He was falling in love with her. Really falling. Falling deeper and deeper and now he didn't know when, or if, he would ever stop. And he knew what love felt like.

Sara sat quietly in his arms, her tears having cried themselves out long ago. How long he couldn't be sure, but it must have been at least an hour or more. She moved, pushing herself away from him, and reached up to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured, resting her forehead on his.

"You're welcome," he breathed back. "I'll always be here for you, when you need me. You know that."

"Ditto," she smiled sadly, her eyes closed. "You'd _better_ know that!"

"I do," he grinned, still trailing his fingers through her hair. He let the grin fade and his hand drifted to a halt. "I should go. Let you get some rest."

"Stay," she whispered, opening her eyes to catch his. "I don't want to sleep right now... And I don't want you to go."

"Sara..."

He was cut off by her lips on his own, a soft, gentle caress that sent a million thoughts flying through his mind. She kissed him again, and this time he kissed her back, lost in her. She leant forward, deepening the kiss, and he pulled away.

"Miss Lance, I do believe you are trying to seduce me," Rip muttered, catching Sara's shoulders in time to stop her kissing him again.

"Is it working?" Sara murmured, looking away with a rueful smile.

"Don't do this," said Rip, turning her eyes back to meet his. "Not tonight. Not like this. You'll regret it later."

"Not like what?" Sara sighed, her head on one side. "Not hurting? Not grieving? That's gonna be a long wait."

"This is a bridge you can't uncross, Sara," he told her, but it was as much to convince himself as it was her. "Not with me."

"It's a bridge I've been wanting to cross for quite some time," she retorted, her gaze steady now and fixed on his own. "With you. Only you. It just never seemed the _right_ time."

He dragged his eyes away from hers, fully aware that if he turned back to her now she would see in them the truth of what he felt. Of what he wanted. Of how little resolve he had left. If he turned back to her now, he was lost. "And tonight is?"

Sara reached out and turned his face back towards hers, waiting for him to meet her eyes before she spoke. "Maybe today reminded me we don't always get a 'right time'."

They remained there, still as statues, their eyes locked in a war of unspoken words and emotions.

"Stay," she repeated simply. "Please."

XXXX

Sara woke the next morning, her head resting on Rip's bare shoulder, her hand over his heart. The slow, steady rhythm told her he was still asleep. She breathed in deeply and smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone and propping herself up on her other arm to watch him sleep. He shifted slightly, the arm that had been wrapped around her before, falling away from her new position. She missed its warmth. Lifting the hand over his heart, she traced the lines of his face. Brows, cheekbones, nose, lips, jaw, neck. She leant down and pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his neck. He shifted again and she smiled. She trailed her fingers over his collarbone and chest. He caught her hand and lifted it to kiss the pulse point on her wrist.

"You can stop with the seduction tactics now, Miss Lance," he murmured drowsily, his eyes still closed. "They already worked."

"You know, in the circumstances, Rip," she grinned, "I think you should probably drop the formalities."

"Even in front of the crew?" Rip asked, his other hand running softly up her back. "I think it might give the game away a little."

"Okay, maybe not in front of the crew," she conceded. "Not until we're sure they'll be okay with it."

"They?" Rip looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, Mick, then," she admitted.

Rip smiled. He had no wish to replay the little pageant they had used to recruit Rex for real. "Agreed."

"Breakfast?" Sara asked, tangling her fingers with his.

"In a bit," he replied, his free hand tangling with her hair. "Just something I've got to do first."

"Oh?"

"This," he said, and kissed her.

XXXX

The kitchen was empty when they arrived, later than intended, passing by still quiet sleeping quarters one after the other just in case they met anyone. For a while it was just the two of them, sitting opposite each other at one of the little round tables that had long ago been added to the ship's kitchen, sipping coffee and eating cereal, or orange juice and toast in Sara's case, and grinning like idiots. Then Mick strolled in. He looked over and nodded blearily at each of them, then headed for the cupboards, pulling out flour, eggs, sugar and a bowl and pan before turning to the fridge for milk.

"I promised Haircut pancakes for breakfast if he sat up with the kid and the old man," he mumbled. "Figured he didn't need quite as much beauty sleep."

"You know, Rex could have sat with them," offered Rip, looking up from his cereal, "and Gideon would be there anyway."

"Yeah, Rex knows he doesn't need sleep now, and Ray would have stayed anyway if you just told him they were alone," grinned Sara. "You didn't need to cook for him."

"Tin Man's been a little on the quiet side since the virus incident. Besides: they're not just for Haircut," rumbled Mick. "They're for me too, but mine come with bacon and maple syrup."

"That sounds..." Rip faltered. "Delightful?"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, English" replied the older man.

"Tried what?" Ray asked, cheerful as ever. "Jax is awake and Gideon says he's fine. He's sitting with the professor. He thinks he'll wake up soon too. Oh, and he's hungry. Morning Rip. Morning Sara."

"You know most people start with the 'good mornings', then the daily news," muttered Mick. "I guess this means pancakes for the kid too?"

"You know you love it when people appreciate your cooking, Mick," Ray wheedled. "And he _is_ confined to the medbay for the next few hours. Just so that Gideon can observe his vitals while the professor wakes up."

"Then take him some toast!" Mick retorted. "I didn't sign up second time round to be everyone's personal chef!"

"But you have such natural talent for the job," coaxed Ray. "The poor guy's been unconscious for the last twelve hours. He deserves a good breakfast."

Mick uttered a low, wordless growl and reached for the ingredients cupboard again. "His first, then yours."

"Thank you, Mick," grinned a triumphant Ray. Having obtained victory in his first task of the morning, he turned the full weight of his burgeoning confidence on succeeding with the second too. "So, Sara: you disappeared right after we got back. What got into you last night?"

Rip choked on the dregs of his coffee. Sara's eyes flashed to him, unseen by Ray behind her, and she clamped her jaw shut in an effort not to laugh. 

"No, really," Ray continued, blissfully unaware as he poured a glass of orange juice for himself at another counter. "I mean, we didn't see you all evening. Some of us were worried. You know, what with the little, er, incident during the mission. Then you just vanish on us when we get back. You could have been hurt, angry, throwing knives at the wall, throwing chairs at the wall, although that's really more Mick's style, or waiting for one of us to come see if you were alright. But that's just it. Nobody knew what you were doing."

Sara looked over at Rip, fully aware that neither Mick nor Ray could see the wicked grin forming on her face. "Oh, just something I'd been meaning to do for a while."

Rip, still coughing over his choking fit earlier, was turning pink. "Excuse me," he managed, and hurried out.

Sara bit her lip and hid a smile. She looked down at her empty plate and glass. "You know someone should really check he's okay," she said, standing and heading for the door. "Ray, would you be a dear and put those dishes away for me please. Thank you!"

She caught up with Rip two corridors later, hidden round a corner in the doorway of a store room. He was still coughing, but seemed a slightly more normal colour. She slumped back against the opposite wall and burst out laughing.

"That was childish," he chided, as the coughs subsided.

"You started it," she told him, arms folded.

"Oh, because _that_ tactic is so much less so!"

Sara walked over to him and rested her hands on his chest. Immediately she felt his arms encircling her. She smiled. "The only person whose brain went there at that remark was you. Okay, maybe mine did too, but only after yours did and I didn't nearly out us to the exact people we just agreed not to tell by nearly dying over a mouthful of coffee."

"So therefore you decided to compound a felony?"

"Well, when Ray set it up so well, who could resist?" Sara replied innocently. "And your face was already starting to go red, anyway, with all the, er, choking. Besides, you're kind of adorable when you get all flustered like that."

Rip glared at her. She reached up and kissed the tip of his nose, then giggled. Sara Lance giggled. At him. Because of him. And it was the brightest sound his heart had heard in an eternity.


	54. A Time to Breathe

Doctor Rex Tyler, doctor of medicine and biochemistry, sat ponderously in the medical bay. This was his domain: the part of the ship he had taken charge of. It was, to all intents and purposes, his home. His place to be.

But his place to be what?

He studied the screens before him. Gideon, acting on his instructions, had completed a full body scan of the doctor. The three dimensional image rotated nearby, a holographic projection forming a macabre doppelganger. No matter what way the image turned, it showed the plain truth of Mick Rory's words. He had survived the Druce Virus for one reason and one reason only.

Rex Tyler was an android.

But Rex Tyler could remember being human. He remembered growing up. He remembered falling in love. He remembered being wounded: bleeding and broken in ways no android could ever be.

So what was he?

He had begun with two possible solutions, at least to one part of his dilemma: either his memories were real or they were fake. They felt real to him, but he might just be programmed to think so. Like all good doctors, therefore, he sought a second opinion. On a screen next to his medical results, the findings of Gideon's research answered him. The memories were real. There had once been a real, live, Doctor Rex Tyler, biochemist, medic and superhero. Then the findings failed. Doctor Rex Tyler had disappeared without trace. The next note of him in the timestream was in the role that led him to become the army medic attached to a certain barracks that had held a certain ball. Those reports, backed up by his memories, all told of android Rex, not his warm-blooded, human counterpart. What worried him more was that the gap in his memories matched the gap in Gideon's research almost exactly.

Almost.

XXXX

He stood on the space between two worlds. The line, seen only in his imagination, between every extreme. Dark and light. Night and day. Rich and poor. Beneficence and maleficence. Naught and plenty. Servant and master. Fantasy and reality. Heat and cold. One step more would take him into the jovial, bright, warm, feasting hall, its celebrants bedecked in elaborate masks and flowing robes, beribboned coiffures and ruffed collars. The smell of ambergris pomanders did little to cover the stench of sweating bodies, but the dancing was at its height and the wine had flowed freely all evening.

"What say you, William?" Henry hissed at his shoulder. "Be they ready to see our play?"

"Whether they are or not, it matters little," sighed Sly, stepping back into the shadows. "Our glorious queen has the final word and it is her eye, her ear, her favour, that we must woo tonight. How fares our poet?"

"Ill sir, ill indeed," replied the young man, shaking his head. "His heart weighs him heavy, William, that is for sure. Why, I've not seen him eat nor drink all night! Tell me thou hast an inkling what 'tis bears him so low, sir; and tell me thou dost know how to bear him up again!"

Sly cast an eye out to the stage. "I might, sweet Hal, I might. Come: I see no sign from her gracious majesty yet. Show me where Will is and let Burbage the younger watch the frolicking for a while."

Shakespeare was sitting on the cold stone stairs that led down to the kitchens, servants hurrying up and down around, and sometimes over, the playwright with their dishes of hot and cold sweets and savouries, and their empty salvers. He made no attempt to dodge the swinging skirts that grazed his face and shoulder, or the careless boot that came too near his placid arm.

"Will!" William called, edging through the bustle of busy servants. "Will Shakespeare! Ho!"

Shakespeare remained motionless, his dark head bowed. Had he not known better, Sly might have thought the man was sleeping. Or dead.

But he did know better. And that puzzled him.

William let a hand drop onto the poet's shoulder, bringing him out of his trance-like reverie with a jump. Sly gathered Shakespeare up under his arms and lifted him to his feet.

Will turned, shaking his head. "Is it time? Are we called for?"

"Pray that we are not, for friend: where is thy costume? Get thee hence to our makeshift tiring house and let Bertie help thee into thy proper attire! Thou art our Prologue, and requisite for the first scene!"

"In truth, my mind is not my own," apologised Will, shaking his head. "I shall endeavour to focus henceforth on my role in my play."

"Come, follow me," ordered William, leading Will by the elbow up the winding stair. "When we have reached the peace of our properties room, then tell me what ails you, although I fear I know the answer all too well."

XXXX

"Ah, Miss Lance," called Professor Stein hurrying down the corridor of the ancient temple, staff in hand, wearing the garb of a Minoan merchant. "There seems to be some sort of problem with the communications system: we have been unable to reach both yourself and Captain Hunter for some time!"

"You know, Martin, we ran into a little trouble a little while back," breezed Sara with a shrug. "Had to ditch our comms."

"Ah! You know where he is then?" Martin enquired, glancing around. "We got back to the ship and you weren't there..."

"We also kinda had to split up," she winced, shrugging again. Stop doing that, she told herself: the professor isn't half as blind to everyone else as he pretends to be. She countered with a question of her own. "Is everyone out looking for us?"

"Myself and Jefferson returned to the temple as, should the priests return, we at least have a reason for being here, although we think the fear of the 'demons' should keep them away for the time being," Martin began, his hands waving around as he talked. Sara started walking back the way he had came and he fell into step with her, still talking. "Mister Rory is perusing the village with Doctor Palmer and Miss Wells. Doctor Tyler and..."

"I get the picture, Martin," said Sara, raising a hand, "full scale manhunt. I'm sorry, we should have found some way of warning you. I thought it was going to take at least an hour for Mick to break Ray out of that cell?"  
The professor had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well..."

"Martin: we had a plan," Sara cut in, her face and voice darkening. "One that involved Mick and Rex. Nobody else. Please tell me we stuck to the plan."

"Well..."

"Martin!"

"In my defence, we were left unsupervised!"

"What happened?" Sara sighed, feeling her shoulders drop. This was Rip's job. Why couldn't he have been the one to get caught? Then she remembered why and fought to suppress a grin.

"I did advise we attempt to find you and the captain first..."

"Just tell me," growled the assassin.

Martin breathed in, wincing even at the thought of the words he was about to say. "Miss Wells may have phased through the cell wall to return the ATOM suit to Doctor Palmer."

Sara stopped dead in her tracks. "She did _what_?"

"It was the quickest and easiest way to 'get the job done', as Mister Rory put it," Martin offered, averting his eyes. Nobody could take the ice cold stare of the assassin when she was angry. Nobody, he thought, except the captain, of course; but then _he'd_ had the most practise.

"Mick Rory agreed to this?"

"Umm..."

"Whatever," Sara threw up her hands and started walking again. She still had to get Martin away from there. "We'll discuss this back on the ship, as a team, with Rip. Right now, let's just hope nobody spots the amazing disappearing man parading about the marketplace!"

"Oh, I do believe Doctor Palmer has shrunk down as far as he can for the duration," Martin assured her, falling into step with her again. "he should not be easy to spot."

Sara groaned inwardly and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He actually had to go and say that! You'd think they'd all have learned by now: phrases like that are just asking for trouble!

Half an hour later, after the customary debriefing and lecture, she lay in the observatory looking up at the stars. They weren't the stars of home. Even if they had still been in Earth's orbit, the stars above her would have looked very different in that time period. The trapdoor opened, permitting head, torso then legs of the new arrival to appear. Sara smiled, listening to the door close again and the lock click into place. She had been expecting him.

"I told you it was a stupid idea," he muttered, lying down beside her.

Sara tilted her head over to touch his. "Well, you _tried_ to tell me, I'll give you that."

"If you hadn't heard the professor's approach..."

"I'm amazed _you_ didn't hear him!"

"Yes, well I was somewhat distracted!"

"And I wasn't?"

"Well, I'm beginning to wonder!"

Sara chuckled and rolled onto her side, turning Rip's face towards her. "Believe me, lover: I was plenty distracted."

A corner of his lip curled upwards. "Is that a fact?"

"You were the one who wanted me to stop seducing the locals in every era," she smirked, tracing the lines of his face.

"I believe the term I used was 'people', not 'locals'," Rip pointed out, rolling onto his side to match her. "We don't have time on missions for shenanigans like today!"

"The mission was done, the temple empty and nobody would have been looking for us for ages had the rest of the team stuck to Mick's original plan to break out Ray," she pointed out, nestling closer.

"And therein lies the flaw," pointed out Rip in turn. "Apparently even Mister Rory cannot do that! But when did anything ever go according to plan with this team, Sara? We should have known better. _I_ should have known better! Sometimes I think you have some kind of list..."

Sara grinned. "Complaining?"

"Heavens, no!" Rip laughed softly, catching her hand and bringing her wrist to his lips. "I wouldn't dare!"

XXXX

The properties room was littered with scenery, costumery, and all the various implements and accoutrements that would be required for that evening's performance, all scattered around in seeming chaos. Nothing could be further from the truth. The younger, less ebullient of the two Burbage brothers was both efficient and effective in supplying the actors with their necessities. He was also infinitely more terrifying should any man happen to disrupt the delicate system he had perfected for doing so! In the centre of the room were two chairs and a screen. Sly led Shakespeare to the former and drew the latter between them and the door.

"Speak freely now, my friend," said he, seating himself in the chair beside the playwright. "Thou knowest well: I am thy true heart's confidante in all. What e'er thou sayest here, no man shall prise from my own lips ere thine shalt give me leave."

"I know 'tis true," sighed Shakespeare, his head hanging heavily before him, "but truly, my true heart is so torn it knows not how to tell its pain. I grieve - Oh! how I grieve - for my dear boy, my Hamnet. I feel I am trapped for aye in this dark pit of hell, feeling nothing but the lack of him. I tear my heart to ribbons for the treacherous guilt it sends seeping through my bones. Guilt that I could not save him. Guilt that it was my fault he was ever in danger in the first place. Guilt that my wife and daughters have lived this past twelvemonth and more without sight of me, my presence no more than the money I send them when I can. I am a selfish man, William. A hateful man: all to be despised and scorned. I allowed myself to begin to live again. I wrote. I drank. I laughed. I loved. Now, unlooked for, comes my wife, in surety of her rightness and power, to bid me hence again. To call me back to the bosom of all my happiness and all my sorrow. I cannot do this, yet I must, if only to exorcise my demons, face my fears. Whether I leave or no, her visit has dragged me back into that foul pit of despair wherein I met you. A world where the face I wear on stage is closer to mine own than the one I show off stage. Where the skills of an actor are employed in all but sleep, what little there is of that."

"Then you must go," William advised him coolly. He steepled his fingers before him, the gesture oddly familiar yet new. "Put the ghosts of the past behind you, Will. You can never truly move forward until you do. I'll be a welcome guest at our Hal's table to celebrate the birth of our Saviour. If you leave tomorrow you can be there with time to get to know your daughters again before the great day. There are ten days yet! But stay you here tonight, for you are needed, and I will go out with you on the morrow to search for gifts for your family."


	55. A Time to Listen

Amaya wandered into the medical bay like a cat inspecting its neighbour's territory. When she finally spotted Rex, he was half-hidden behind a crate, peering down a large and complicated microscope. She circled round, her eyes flitting from the biochemist to the charts and readings displayed on the nearby monitors, to the array of Petri dishes, test tubes and Eppendorf tubes, to the open centrifuge beside them. Whatever Rex was doing, it was absorbing his full concentration. Amaya ran a finger over the lid of the centrifuge, closing it. 

Rex sat up straight, his head whipping round to the centrifuge, then up the smooth curves of Amaya's arm to her face. "Can I help you?"

Amaya shook her head. "I think it is you who needs my help, Doctor, perhaps. Or perhaps just someone's help? An ear to listen, maybe?"

"Why so?"

"I am an outsider in this group, Doctor Tyler," began Amaya, waving away his attempt to protest. "No, I am. I am from a different time, a different land, just like you. A war-torn land, held in terror by the threat of the occupying German forces. I knew only Captain Hunter when I was recruited, although many more years had passed for him than for me since our last meeting. He was a different man then. Much has happened since. He is almost as much a stranger to me now as when I first met him. The others have changed him. They are kind to me. Civil. But they are family, I a mere colleague. And so I remain apart and I watch, and I think. I watched you today, as we walked to the well in search of our captain. I have been watching you since you saved us all from the virus. You are different now. Troubled. Today, at the well, your distraction could have caused us a serious problem. Perhaps next time, the problem will not be so serious. Perhaps it will. I understand that you may be reluctant to talk about whatever it is that is bothering you, but please be aware: I am here. I will listen. I will help if I can. And I will not breathe a word of what you tell me to the other crew members of this vessel. Not without your permission."

Rex looked back to his microscope and was silent, eyes darting back and forth as he considered all that Amaya had said. He heard her shift her weight from the laboratory worktop and turn to go. "Wait!"

Amaya turned back, rested her elbow on the centrifuge and waited.

Rex breathed in through his nose and out again, wondering even while he did it why he bothered to do so at all. "It appears," he began, turning to face her, "that I am an android."

Amaya's forehead wrinkled and her mouth opened to reply. Instead her eyebrows rose at the sight of the doctor becoming absolutely motionless. His eyes were turning glassy and opaque, like two white marbles in a waxwork model. She called his name, but got no response. She tried his code name, but nothing happened.

"Gideon?" Amaya tried. "What has happened to Doctor Tyler."

"I'm afraid Doctor Tyler seems to have gone into some kind of update, or file recovery, mode, Madame Jiwe," replied Gideon's disembodied, yet ever cheerful, voice. "It appears," she continued, "that Hourman has a virus of his own to deal with."

XXXX

William Sly looked up at the coach, the coachman readying his horses for the journey to Stratford and beyond. Within the body of the coach, restless passengers familiarised themselves with the strangers and surroundings that would share their journey. At his side, Will Shakespeare prepared himself to become one of them.

"I know not what I dread the greater," murmured the playwright, gazing up at collection of well-tied travelling chests on the coach's roof. "The accusations in the faces of my daughters, the memories they and their home summon within me, or the guilt each glance from my wife invokes."

"Your daughters will rejoice in seeing you," William comforted him, a hand resting on his friend's shoulder. "New memories, and good memories, will outweigh the bad. As for your wife, there you must build your bridge anew. To be so absent, for so long, and for such a cause: it surely has changed you both. Be patient. You will learn to know each other once more."

"How is't you are so certain of such, William?" Shakespeare sighed. "You who remembers no wife."

"I no longer know what I remember, nor what is merely dreams," said Sly, shaking his head and avoiding Will's gaze. "I do but know this: if you believe there can be no hope for Anne and yourself, your marriage truly will be ended. You must hold on to that hope. Hope that, whatever has befallen you both in your time apart, you can win her back to you once again. Hope that she loves you still, as you love her. Do you love her?"

Shakespeare looked round to find his friend watching him with a steady blue gaze. "I did. Once. With all my heart. More than e'er words might tell."

William nodded, once, definitively. "Then tell her so. Tell her with whate'er words you have. Tell her with all thy heart, until there is nothing left of it for thyself. Protest thy cause at all points."

Shakespeare shook his head, downcast. "How now, if I do woo with so much of my heart that none is left to protest?"

Sly turned him to him. "Then woo with thy wits, protest with thy words and win her with thy heart."

"I fear this is a role for which I have no heart, my friend."

"No heart, sir," pondered Sly aloud, "or no stomach?"

"Neither, methinks," laughed Will, his eyes rolling skyward, "an I might widen the gap between us."

"Time does that on its own," William assured him, turning him to the waiting coach and impatient passengers. "We are but riders borne upon its waves to steer our passage true where best we may. Fare thee well, my friend, and bravely. Adieu."

Will Shakespeare clasped his friend's hand firmly in his and boarded the coach with a nod. There was no more time to hide in his world of fantasies, a traveller of the mind alone. Now he must to Stratford, a traveller in body as in spirit, to face the torments of his past and pray for happiness in his future.

XXXX

"You are a hoarder, Rip Hunter," grinned Sara, her hand hovering delicately over an intricately carved and bejewelled Fabergé egg.

"I'll have you know that was a present from a grateful member of the Russian Royal family," muttered Rip, only half watching her progress around the room. He let his eyes drift over her on their way back to the stack of reports he was trying to focus on. Sometimes he really hated being Captain.

"Ooh, grateful, huh?" Sara teased, picking up the egg and turning it carefully in her hands. "They must've been plenty grateful to part with this little beauty. Do you know how much these things go for at a good auction?"

"I really couldn't say," Rip mumbled, frowning down at the words in front of him. "It wasn't as if she could take it with her."

"So she was a 'she' then, hmm?" Sara replaced the egg and swanned over to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. She dropped down into it and swung her legs up onto the table. Rip's eyes swung from the reports in his hands to her ankles, then to her face. He raised an eyebrow. She smirked. "Whatcha do?"

Rip sat back, the reports dropping to the desk. His head dropped to one side. Sara's grin broadened. He sighed. "What do you think I did, Miss Lance? I saved her life."

"Go on," urged Sara, grin and ankles both resolutely staying where they were. "Who was she? Princess? Queen? Empress? Young? Old? Was she pretty?"

"Oh look: I think you've found the question you wanted to ask!" Rip quipped, a momentary smile flashing across his face. "Unlike some I could mention, Miss Lance, I don't go around snogging every damsel in distress I come across in the whole of space and time. Besides: I was married."

"I didn't ask if you kissed her, lover, I asked if she was pretty," smiled Sara, dropping her head to one hand and leaning on her elbow. He met her steady blue stare and pulled a face. Her grin brightened again.

"She was pretty," replied Rip tersely. "Now can I please get back to work?"

Sara let her eyes roll around the room as she considered this. "Hmm? Nah. Not until you tell me who she was and how you saved her, at least."

"Sara..."

"Captain," she grinned back wickedly.

Rip groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment. He dropped his hands to the desk and slumped back in his chair. "Fine. It was the Russian revolution. I was on a mission to retrieve certain documents that had fallen into the wrong hands. I came across this young girl. She was terrified. She had become separated from her family and was hiding in a secret passage in the palace. All she had was the clothes on her back and a small bag of belongings. In it were the documents I was searching for. Almost everything else would only have been of interest to a child. There was a teddy bear in there! I had two choices: leave her there to face her fate or hide her. I could hardly leave her! I knocked her out and got her back to the ship. Took her somewhere I knew she would be safe. Left her there. She gave me the egg before I left. It was her birthday present, but it was far too much of a clue to who she really was to be left with her."

"So you saved a little girl. Do I get a name?"

"I said a young girl, not a little one," corrected Rip, waggling a finger at Sara. "She was a teenager. Old enough to know her own mind and bright enough to know the dangers of letting anyone know who she was."

"Do I get to know who she was?" Sara persisted.

Rip sighed and his eyes flicked down, a shadow crossing his face. "I dare say it doesn't matter now."

"Why?" Sara frowned, her tones suddenly soft.

"She survived barely five years before a bout of pneumonia did what the Bolsheviks could not. I buried her with her brother. Yet another life I failed to save."

Sara's feet slid off the desktop and landed softly on the floor. She padded round to the other side of the desk, crouching down and turning him to face her. Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes found hers again. She took his hands in hers and kissed them. "You didn't fail her. You gave her five more years."

"I'm sorry, my love," Rip breathed, taking back one hand to brush a strand of golden hair behind Sara's ear. "I'm trying to focus on the good. I promise."

"I know, Rip," smiled Sara, leaning into the touch of his hand. "I know how hard that can be. But it doesn't mean you should forget her, or any of the others you saved, or tried to save; that you should push those memories away, whether you succeeded or not. You did what you could, and it was more than anyone else could have done."

"It wasn't enough."

"Nothing ever could be."

Rip leant forward, touching his forehead to Sara's and cradling her face in both hands. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep, slow and shaky. Finally, he pressed his lips to hers, softly, slowly, then he leant back. "Thank you, Sara, for being here, for listening, for putting up with me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Sara rose to her feet, her fingers tangling with his as his hands fell from her face. She grinned, a little wistfully. "Probably more work for starters. It's heading for lunch time and you need to eat. What do you want? Do not say nothing!"

"Oh, just get Gideon to make me a sandwich," shrugged Rip, turning back to his reports and releasing her hands. "She knows what kind."

"You know, I know I'm no great cook, lover, but I think I can manage a sandwich," Sara shot back, turning on her way to the door.

Rip did not even look up. "No, love, you can't!"

"You are so lucky I don't have my knives!" Sara teased, reaching the door.

"First time for everything!" Rip muttered.

"I heard that!" Sara called back, turning to press a palm to the door sensor.

Rip let a smile flit across his face, brightening it, then it darkened again, falling into memory. But this time the memory wasn't quite so painful. He looked up, catching Sara's eye as she turned to close the door. "Anastasia," he said, smiling sadly. "Her name was Anastasia."

XXXX

Amaya paced the length of the medical bay, back and forth like a lion in a too small cage. Two hours passed, then three then four. She sat. She stood. She walked.

And she waited.

Nobody came looking for them - either of them. It did not surprise her. She was, as she had told Rex, an outsider to the group. More so even than he or Jesse, both of whom had joined the team far more recently than she. The others were used to the various scientists ensconcing themselves in their respective laboratories for hours, even days, at a time. Nobody would be missing either of them. Be that as it may, she thought: it was all to the good. She had promised the doctor she would respect his privacy, and Gideon seemed to think there was no danger present in his current condition. All that was needed was time. That seemed to be something they both had plenty of at present. If anything changed, then, and only then, would she consider alerting the others to Doctor Tyler's current condition.

Amaya left the room briefly, now and then: to get a book, a drink, a meal. She passed Sara in the kitchen, carrying a tray with two plates and two glasses. There was no need to ask who the second set of dishes belonged to: Amaya was all too aware how much more time the Canary seemed to be spending with the Captain these days. She did not like it. He was too easily swayed by the woman. Too easily distracted.

The digits of the Waverider's on board linear chronometer were heading into the small hours when the smallest of sounds shifted Amaya out of her doze. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes and looked over to the motionless figure of the biochemist. The android. Rex. The lights were low, lulling the ship into night mode, and she squinted through the darkness to the frozen figure. Nothing seemed to be moving. But then: what had roused her from her sleep? She summoned the spirit of the owl and watched, her head tipping sharply from one side to the other as her ears mapped the world around her.

Then he breathed out.


	56. A Time to Hear

"Doctor Tyler?"

Amaya's voice broke through the silence of the medical bay like an axe through ice. Sound seemed to flood back: the hum of the engines, the buzz of the monitors, the sound of breathing. Of movement. Of life. The doctor's eyes unglazed, returning to their native hue. He blinked.

"Doctor Tyler?" Amaya repeated, stepping closer and reaching out a tentative hand to the newly discovered android.

"I'm fine," blurted Tyler, holding up one hand to halt her progress and pressing the other into the laboratory desk to steady himself.

Amaya paused, but she didn't retreat. "You do not look fine."

"I remember," explained the doctor. "It's... It's a lot to take in. Just... Just give me a moment. I'll be fine. Please: sit."

Amaya perched on the nearby stool, one arm resting on the worktop. "Rex..."

"Don't!" Tyler cut in raising a peremptory hand again. "That's not my name. I'm not him. I look like him. I have his memories. But I'm not him."

"Then who?" Amaya began, but she was interrupted yet again.

"Matthew," said the android. "My name is Matthew. Matthew Tyler."

XXXX

Christmas of the year fifteen ninety seven proved a plentiful one for William Sly. After an advent of fasting, broken only by the celebration of Gaudete Sunday on the third week, and only then by the court of the Queen, a place at any table would have been welcome. He was indeed welcome at the Condell table and lodged with Henry and his wife for two days after the great feast day and the promise to return for the celebration of the twelfth night and many meals between. Sly returned to his lodging burdened with spare pies and cooked meats, preserved fruits and savoury aspics, unequivocally convinced that Henry's claim was true: he had indeed married the best cook in London. The Christmas meal had been one that would long live in Sly's memory. Even now, the ghost of the scent of baked ham, stuffed with apricots, glazed with honey and studded with cloves, made his mouth water. The warm pastry of the minced mutton pie, shaped long, like a manger, made his stomach rumble in mourning. Saint Stephen's day had been a fish day, with a whole baked carp, stuffed with prunes and spiced with cloves and mace. A similarly aromatic and flavourful frumenty had accompanied each dish and a portion of it rested now in Sly's bag. Even the roasted vegetables, doused in honey and oil and winter savoury, brought fond memories to William's mind. A sealed jar of pureed apples, cooked with cream, rosemary and rose water, weighted down the bottom of the bag; while a lovingly wrapped, soft, moist gingerbread, redolent with an intricate dance of spices, rested safely on the top.

Already hungry with the thought of his burden, even though the midwinter sun had barely reached its zenith, Sly opened the door to his lodging house. The owner of the house, a tavern in truth, met him by the stairs, a broom in one hand and a folded, sealed letter in the other.

"Arrived yesterday evening, Sly," the landlord informed him, handing him the letter and turning back to his sweeping. "There be mutton and chicken stew a-cooking for this eve, and you'd be a welcome hand in here when the wassailing starts. T'would earn you a few coppers more while the season lasts."

"A few coppers more would be of use indeed," nodded Sly, taking the letter and clasping the man's hand in thanks and agreement. There would be more than a few coppers coming his way if he were in the alehouse. There would be whatever the drinkers were too drunk to miss. Turning the letter over in his hand, he ascended the stair to his rooms, laying the bag of vittles carefully by the bed. He broke the seal and held the paper to the light of the window. The scratchy cursive proclaimed the writer's identity before William had read a single word. He perused the paper, taking in the news from Stratford and his friend.

Shakespeare had bought a house, New Place, and had settled himself and his family there before Christmas, making it a double celebration. His epistle was filled with stories of his daughters: how they had grown, how they had changed, what endeavours they had succeeded in that past year and more, how they smiled when first they saw him, and how greatly they had appreciated the Yuletide gifts Sly had helped him pick out. The note ended with news of Anne. The distance still remained between them, but Will had hopes of closing it in the coming months. For these reasons he would remain in Stratford longer than anticipated: to help his family settle into their new home and to win back the heart, and the trust, of his wife.

Sly nodded thoughtfully to himself and placed the letter on his small wooden table that served as desk, library and wash stand. He would reply later. For now his mind was on other matters; namely finding storage space in his small rooms for the copious remnants of the Condells' Christmas feast. Yes, indeed, he thought: it would be no great hardship to him to spend as much of the Christmas season with Henry and Elizabeth as possible.

XXXX

The crew gathered on the bridge, standing or sitting in uneasy silence. They had all known, every one of them, that the man they called Rex Tyler was actually an android, and that they could not tell him until the virus struck. They had not known why. Matthew Tyler stood on the steps of the office, looking down at them all. He knew why. He also knew it was time to share that secret, and that so much more might make sense to them if he did.

As always, Mick was the last to shuffle through the doors, a bowl of popcorn in one large hand. "What? It's late, I'm hungry and this is the sequel we've all been waiting for since we first found out about the Tin Man!"

A look of understanding passed across Matthew's face. "That's why I never heard you use a nickname for me."

"Called you 'Doc', Doc," shrugged Mick, dropping down into a chair, a few scattered morsels of popcorn bouncing out of their bowl with the movement and pattering away across the metal floor of the bridge. "Well, get to it Tin Man: we're all ears."

Tyler nodded, as much to himself as to Mick. "You all know what I am: that I'm an android. You knew even before I did," he began, glancing warily from face to face. "What you don't know is who I am. You know me as Rex Tyler, and I thought I was, but it now seems that's not the truth."

"So... who are you?" Jax asked, a double dose of curiosity untempered by the patience of age.

"My name is Matthew Tyler. I am an android from the future. A future further even than yours, Captain Hunter. I travelled to the past to rescue Rex Tyler and help defeat the future super villain Extant. We won the day, but Rex was close to death by the end of it all. I created a pocket dimension, outside of time, and took him there."

"Temporal stasis?" Rip murmured, his eyes narrowing. "How?"

"There was a device," continued Matthew, focussing on the captain. "It was called the Worlogog. My mentor charged me with its safe keeping. It gives the bearer control over the entirety of time and space. A clear map of everything that ever was, or ever will be, and so much more. It was precious, yet dangerous. We fought to keep it safe. Fought against so many foes. Metron, my mentor, warned me not to destroy it utterly - it was of too great importance - so I disassembled it instead. Broke it into so many pieces. Scattered them through time. I thought they might be safe. Now I am not so sure."

Rip shifted, his back straightening. "Why?"

"I had no knowledge of this when we were there, or I might have spotted the pattern sooner. The places you have visited in recent months - the eras - with the exception of those you found myself and Amaya in, they have all been within a century of the time periods I hid some of the pieces in. Geographically, they've none of them been too far off either. The Valley of the Queens, before the Egyptian empire spread so far and gave up pyramids. France, just less than a hundred years after the turmoil of the French revolution. The Holy Land, less than a hundred years before the crusade of Richard the Lionheart. Two might be a coincidence, but three?"

"I hate coincidences," growled Mick.

"Ditto the arsonist," chorused four voices, to the open-mouthed, indignant glare of Professor Stein and the confusion of Jesse and Amaya.

"I believe the reasons for our presence in each of these eras stems back to one thing: our old friends the Time Pirates. I believe they are looking for the pieces of the Worlogog. Something caused your colleague's ship to crash just over the opposite side of the Mediterranean from where I hid one of the pieces..."

"Don't forget the spot in the future, where we found Amelia," interrupted Sara. "Before your time, but..."

"So was France, with Jules Verne," finished Rip. "Gideon, show Doctor Tyler... Doctor or Mister? Anyway, bring up the data for the temporal and geographical location of Amelia Earhart's timeship crash site."

The holotable flicked into life and a blue, three dimensional globe rotated into sight. A point on it was marked and labelled with the year of Amelia's crash.

Tyler nodded. "The same pattern. The individual parts of the Worlogog still retain some power. I believe it is this that has dragged these ships in to these crash sites. And although I do still possess Doctor Tyler's memories of medical school and university, Captain Hunter, I can no longer claim to have undergone such rigours myself. I believe Mister Tyler, or even just Tyler, would be acceptable now."

"These fragments," began Martin, leaning forward in his seat. "You say they have power, even individually. Would it be safe to assume that power would increase were they to be rejoined with any of their counterparts?"

"Exponentially so, Professor," nodded Tyler. "I believe the Time Pirates are tracking these fragments, perhaps have even already found some, with a view to recombining them into the Worlogog itself."

"Just what the universe needs," groaned Rip, leaning down on the holotable.

"Another group of evil maniacs with time control!" Sara finished.

"Not just time," corrected Tyler. "This device gives power over time _and_ space. It's not just this universe that's at threat: it's the whole multiverse!"

XXXX

Christmas Revels in Tudor England were fine and plentiful for the rich and connected. For those great, hive-like colonies of the working classes, or lower, the Christmas season bore a more modest apparel. There was no break in the advent fast for the celebration of Gaudete Sunday. There was no desertion of duty from Christmas morn to Twelfth Night. There were no skilfully sewn up swans or peacocks, no thrice stuffed birds or whole, spit-turned, roasted boars.

There were also no starving beggars on the streets.

What the rich had, they revelled in. What the poor had, they shared.

Sly slipped through the first market of fifteen ninety eight. As cold as it may be, food still needed buying. A job for the servants, as often as not, but sometimes dainty ladies and ridiculously ruffed and caped men pushed their way through the throng, fully expecting it to part for them as the waters of the Red Sea did for Moses. The men kept their hands on their swords or their daggers - never on their purses - and more than one found the attack they dreaded had come and gone before they even noticed its approach. The ladies were too easy, especially the younger ones. If Sly had learnt one thing in his past year and more in London, it was the strength, and the usefulness, of his charm. He could flatter and smile and kiss their hands and they would not notice the lack of their purse, their rings, and quite often their pride until he was long gone.

With no eyes on him, he was beholden to no rules or laws but his own. To steal from none that were poorer than he. To hurt nobody, physically, unless absolutely necessary. To remember any who dared try to steal from him, and pay them back with interest. If only he had seen that kid's face, he thought, thinking back to his first trip through the Bishopsgate market, small though it was. He had looked for the scruffy little tyke ever afterwards, but never seen any form that matched.

In the absence of the theatre, he had roamed the streets of London, taking what he wished from distracted upper class and noble personages, some even as they congratulated him on a performance they had watched. At night he had retired to his lodgings, tending the bar while his landlord bustled between public room and kitchen, and removing those who had drunk their fill, whether they agreed with the sentiment or not. Occasionally, they would be removed sans the entirety of their belongings.

The evening of Twelfth Night neared. A church bell chimed nearby. One. Two. Three. Four. It was time he took his way to the Condell house. Sly rose from his kneeling position. To all the world he looked like the penitent palmer his fellows supposed him, paying his respects to those who had gone before him. To his own knowledge he was naught but a thief: abusing his position as a player to steal from the high and mighty whenever possible; and abusing the ever open doors of the churches to hide his ill gotten gains where none may think to look.

He had small caches in many of the churches of London, but this was his greatest, most treasured haul. Here was where he hid those thing he would never consider selling. Things that were precious to him, but might raise a few eyebrows among visitors. Especially unfriendly ones. Here was where he hid those treasures he would still want safe years from now. He rose from his knees by the graven tomb, the armour of the knight so familiar to him, and turned to echoing hall of the church itself. It was odd, the familiarity he felt here: like he had visited here once before, in a dream. Even finding the hiding place had been a work of unqualified instinct and luck. Perhaps he had come upon such secret hollows in his previous life: the life he could no longer remember. The life Will still tried to convince him he had written in the pouch of papers they had found him with. That pouch now rested in the secret compartment, along with all else he had first brought to London, guarded by the Marshal and his sons. He did not know why, but something in his gut told him his hiding place would be a safe one. What thief would dare use it? He turned out of the great edifice, picking his way through the scattered public who had drifted in, either to marvel or to pray, and headed for the great thoroughfare of Fleet Street.

XXXX

"What is it?" Sara's voice followed Rip into his office, ignoring the watching team gathered behind them.

"Hmm?" Rip answered, his mind focussed on the papers he was searching for.

"You're on to something, and don't say you're not because you literally just pushed past Rex - Matthew - to get in there."

Rip looked round to see Matthew and Sara in the doorway. He raised a forefinger at the android. "Ah. Sorry. Had a thought."

"Don't go all cryptic on me, Hunter," Sara's singsong tones warned. When he glanced back this time he was met with folded arms and an exquisitely arched eyebrow.

"Just..." Rip paused to haul a small set of drawers away from the wall. "Give me..." He pressed a section of the wall and something slid outward. "A moment." He turned, triumphantly, holding aloft a silvery sphere.

"You know Ollie has a friend makes things like that," commented Sara, eyes flicking between the captain and his trophy.

Rip walked over to the desk in the middle of the room, aware that the rest of the team had now sidled close enough to see what was going on. He set the orb down in the centre of the desk and waited for them to file in around him. "Not quite like this, Miss Lance. Watch."

He ran his thumb around the equator of the sphere, pausing and pressing at a point where there was no obvious button. Lines appeared around the previously perfect piece of metal. The top of the sphere twisted and rose, splitting down the centre to peel back to its mid line. Fixed upright in the heart of the tiny ball of technology was something that looked anachronistically archaic. It glowed with power, radiating a sickly green light that made all three physicists take a mutual step back.

"Relax, please," breathed Rip, a smile blossoming across his face as he gazed down at the tiny thing. "There is no harmful radiation emission from this artefact."

"No more harmful than time itself," added Tyler, stepping closer and stretching out a hesitant hand. "It's a piece of the Worlogog. Where did you...?"

"One of my first missions back to my own time and place of birth, years ago now!" Rip marvelled, scrutinising the fragment with renewed interest. "Such a strange little thing. I never found out what it was. Until now of course."

"One of your first," repeated Ray, a frown dampening his usual curious glee. "So your previous bosses: they know about this? Is that how the Time Pirates know? We already know they've joined forces, or what's left of them have."

"No, not possible," frowned Rip, pulling back suddenly solemn. "I thought it might interest Miranda - a pet project we could work on together - so I kept it from them."

"Then someone else must have stumbled on another piece," hypothesised Jesse, "same way they found me."

"Maybe even the same time," suggested Tyler, turning to the speedster. "Do you have any memory of where or when you came through?"

Jesse shook her head. "Beyond it was the middle of nowhere and the middle of the night, not a clue." She shrugged. "There was grass."

"Looks like we're on the road to nowhere then," grinned Ray. Eight pairs of eyes turned to glare at him. "Couldn't help it. Sorry."

"Look, it doesn't matter where Jesse came through," Sara pointed out with a wave of her hand. "Wherever, whenever that might have been: either the fragment was there and the pirates already have it, or it wasn't and there's no point going looking. Either way we need to worry more about the rest of the fragments still out there and stop them getting any more. Re... Doc... Tyler: what else can you tell us about this? Can we use this bit to find the others?"

"You don't have to," Matthew shook his head and pointed to himself. "Android, remember? I know where I hid the pieces: I just don't know if they'll all still be there."

"How many fragments do the Time Pirates need to make this thing dangerous?" Rip asked, pressing a button that began closing the dome of the orb again.

"Dangerous is a relative term," shrugged Tyler. "One fragment, used properly, up close, can be dangerous. The more pieces they have, and the more they know about how to use them, the more dangerous it becomes."

"Then I guess we'll be calling in the troops for a clean up job," sighed Sara, leaning down onto the desk and peering at the sphere. "Are we totally sure we can trust them all?"

Rip winced. "Much as I hate to say it, but I'd even have difficulty trusting Luke with something as sensitive as this."

"Then we're on our own," nodded Jax.

"Business as usual," shrugged Martin.

"Mister Tyler, Gideon and I will be needing a full list of the temporal and geographical co-ordinates of each fragment of the Worlogog device," nodded Rip.

"Already done," smiled Matthew. "I guess there are some perks to being a computer program."

"Huh! Score one for wifi!" Ray chuckled. "You know, I bet..."

Matthew turned his smile, now fixed, onto the inventor. "If you make a single fruit comment, I will hurt you."

Mick barked out a laugh. "Hah! Get in line!"

"Gideon," appealed Professor Stein from the midst of the group, "please tell me we're ready to jump!"

"If you would all be so kind as to take your seats, Professor," smiled Gideon's invisible voice, "I have the first set of co-ordinates programmed and ready to go."

"If you had a hand, dear lady, I would kiss it," breathed Stein, following the others back down to the chairs.

"In view of Mister Tyler's revelations, Professor," grinned Gideon, "I may one day be able to hold you to that."


	57. A Time to Question

"That's the third spot we've turned up empty," gasped Ray, leaning on his knees in the entrance hall of the Waverider.

"Dude: how are you so out of breath?" Jax complained, leaning back against a crate with Martin seated by his side. "You fly _and_ you have a suit that does all the flying for you!"

"Hey! I still have to steer! Plus: those cavemen were _not_ happy to see us! They threw stones!"

"We get it: team fly boys struck out," rumbled Mick through the comms. A pointed clearing of the throat came through in the awkward silence that followed. "What? She coulda walked!"

"Do you ever listen to the mission briefings, Mick?" Ray sighed, pushing himself upright.

"You had your mission, Haircut, we had ours," grinned the thief's insalubrious voice.

Ray waved a hand at the stairs for Amaya, Martin and Jax to precede him. "Yeah? How'd that go?"

"We had more luck on our end, Doctor Palmer," confirmed Rip, sounding more than a little distracted, "but if you wouldn't mind moving your hand so we can close the door, I'd rather cloak and take off sooner than later. Your new friends aren't too far behind you and I'd hate to have our presence be remembered in art, however primitive."

"Right! My bad! Sorry!" Ray stammered, pulling his hand away from the doorframe as the hydraulics whirred into life.

"Ray, just get up here!" Sara snapped. "Sooner we get out of here and get the next two spots checked the better!"

"On my way! Hey! I thought things went well your end?"

A deep rumbling chuckle rolled through the comms. "Somebody took a little bump on the noggin. Had to get rescued by our new little Perfect Thief and the Tin Man."

"Hey! Less of the little!" Jesse complained, giggling.

"Perfect Thief? Really?" Jax chimed in, rounding the corner of the corridor into the bridge.

"In and out of a roomful of lasers before they ever know she's there? No hacking, no smash and grab; no muss, no fuss," explained Mick, unrepentant. He caught Ray's eye as he caught up with the others. "Even Snart couldn't do that, and he was the best there ever was."

Ray's brows flickered together. He opened his mouth to say something then shook his head and took his seat.

"You know, it was pretty cool, being a thief for the day," shrugged Jesse, smiling across at Jax.

"He's a bad influence on you," retorted Jax, nodding at the veteran thief by her side.

"Hah!" Mick laughed back. "My work here is just beginning."

The ship jumped.

XXXX

Winter passed in slush and sludge, the snow that finally fell in February mixing with the miry mud of London's streets. Theatres opened their doors after the hangover of Twelfth Night had faded and yet the Lord Chamberlain's Men were without their poet. William Sly ascended to the honoured rank of regular player, winning hearts and minds of all from the groundlings to the galleries. Finally, as the snow thawed and the sun strengthened, William Shakespeare returned to London.

"How goes it, Master Sly?" Shakespeare called, his shout crossing the empty yard and stage of the Curtain Theatre.

"Will!" Henry cried out, dropping the bench he had been helping William Sly remove and bounding down from the stage to embrace his friend. "Thou hast returned on an auspicious day! 'Tis now the ides of march!"

"Auspicious day indeed," returned Will, clapping the younger man on his shoulder, "but not for good! 'Twas great old Caesar's death day, was it not?"

"And yet it served Marc Antony well," observed Sly, making his way down from the stage with considerably more decorum and grace.

"Great Cleopatra would agree, methinks," laughed Will. "Now there's a tale I'll tell an God be kind."

"Nay: two tales, Will," corrected Henry, shaking his friend's arm with bloodthirsty glee. "One o' Caesar and one his heirs. An' write me a murderer o' great Caesar as I may stab yon beslubbering, fat-kidneyed Burbage i' th' back as he so oft has I!"

"Hast thou been lorded o'er while I was gone? Sweet Hal, I like not this streak in thee that revels in a needful gory part for naught but Puckishly to 'tend to kill the finest player that this town doth ken."

"The finest player he, but not the finest man!" Henry retorted, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his grimy, tool-filled apron and staring at his feet. "'A pouts and flounces through all the tiring house and ne'er a scrap o' work does he. 'A deals out orders to hired man an' sharer alike an' he do save all th' worst tasks for I!"

"Sweet Hal! Brave Hal!" Shakespeare laughed, following a sullen Henry back up on stage. "How much thou must have borne. 'Od's blood, I'll write thee thy revenge, I swear! Great Burbage as great Caesar then, and thou his murd'rer in the very first degree."

"An' little skill will't take to play the part!" Henry crowed, clasping his hands before him like the vilest of treacherous toe-rags. "Anon! I'll go announce thy coming to the company! 'Twill be a revelation much rejoiced in, I'll warrant!"

The young sharer bounded off into the tiring house with blissful enthusiasm. Behind him Will felt Sly draw near.

"What's wrong?" Sly purred in Shakespeare's ear. "Tell me plain, Will; and do not say 'tis naught."

"Yet naught it is, I dare say, for all that," sighed Will, dropping the face of false cheerfulness now they were alone. "'Tis naught, at least, that should now trouble me."

"Come: truth will out! And if not thee then who?" Sly pressed, standing close and watching the poet's eye, still trained upon the gently drifting curtains of the stage doors. "Who is't that now should bid their rest adieu?"

"Perhaps thou knowest more of this than I," opined the playwright, without turning. "Hast thou not heard the rumours this last month?"

"Thou knowest well how keen's my gossip's ear," murmured Sly, turning his back to the tiring house and pulling Will round with him. "But rumour in this city runs like rats: there never is just one for all to hear. Pray thou be more specific in thy chats."

Shakespeare tugged at his beard and finally looked up to meet Sly's eye. "Whilst I did bide in Stratford with my wife and daughters, there didst come a London tale of terror bare among the upper class. A plethora of daring, wondrous thefts, that kept the high and mighty all a-feared for safety o' their fine and precious goods. The wonder o't is the ease withall the miscreant doth move from place to place and, though he move through every gilded hall, no man hath seen a shadow of his face. The Ghost of London town they call this thief, who carries out these crimes beyond belief."

"A ghost they say in East Cheap also, Will," nodded Sly quietly. "And Bishopsgate and all the land around. Yet never has this spirit struck them there, where none but those in greater need are found."

"So to did I thence hear before I came to visit thee in this our place of work," agreed Shakespeare, nodding and watching his friend keenly. "Yet also there I found in some a fear: that having wrung the rich the Ghost would turn to prey upon the poorer folk therein."

"He will not."

"Say you so?" Shakespeare's eyes narrowed, devouring every detail of Sly's face and voice and manner. "In truth, 'twill ease their hearts more than it does mine, William."

"What fearest thou?" Sly drawled, rolling his head to the side to look at Will.

"Of only that which cannot here be spake."

"Then come," sighed Sly, nodding once and taking his friend by the arm. "Our play is o'er and all is still. 'Tis now the very witching hour of night, when might a man well fear to speak of ghosts, e'en in the very heart of all his friends. I'll walk with thee to Bishopsgate and there, in safety of thy walls, I'll speak with thee."

XXXX

"How's your head, Miss Lance?" Rip inquired, passing a glass of water to the patient. Beside her Matthew Tyler tidied away bandages and medical supplies.

"Nothing I can't handle, Captain," huffed Sara, letting her fingers brush over his as she took the glass.

"Three stitches and a probability of concussion," elaborated Matthew, stepping back over and pointing out a scan of the injured area on a display nearby.

"Telltale," muttered the patient, rolling her eyes. She looked back to Rip. "I'm fine. Where to next?"

"For you, nowhere!" Rip wagged a finger at her. "You and Matthew stay here and co-ordinate the missions. I will accompany Mister Rory and his new... acolyte."

"You're gonna need..."

"We'll prioritise the early and less inhabited eras," proclaimed the captain, ignoring the interruption and staring her down. "If Mister Tyler clears you for duty tomorrow, then we'll see. Get some rest, Sara: that's an order."

"I have fought with worse!" Sara insisted, halting his receding form.

"Doesn't mean you should," he shot back, turning back to her. "I'd rather have you back in one piece when we need you, not struggling through with a head injury when we don't. I need you well, thinking clearly. If you won't rest willingly, I'll order Matthew to sedate you. Now I would rather have your tactical skills on the bridge in case anything does go wrong, but if you force my hand..."

"Noted! Fine!" Sara threw up her hands and slumped back, then winced and let a hand drift to the bandaged part of her scalp.

"Get some rest, Sara," Rip echoed, his voice softer. "I'll see you later."

XXXX

"Okay, did I ever mention I'm really more of a city girl," complained Jesse, swatting the foliage out of her face. The air below the canopy was dank and tinted green. Insects buzzed and chittered in complaint at their passage. They got swatted at too.

"How badly will I screw up history if I burn some of these little bloodsuckers?"

"Still want to trade places, Miss Lance?" Rip asked the air.

"Oh, no: they're all yours," replied Sara's voice over the comms. Smug didn't begin to cover it.

"Might have known," he muttered back under his breath. 

"Ew! I think something's puked here!"

"Yeah, somethin' stinks!"

"Yes, all right! Not far now!" Rip sighed. Something nearby really did smell vile. Putrid, even.

"Yeah, but we still have to get back!"

"We will take a different route, Miss Wells, I promise you."

"Why'd we get stuck with this island anyway?" Mick grumbled. "I like Hawaii."

"Not five million years ago you wouldn't!" Rip snapped back. "Or should I say forty five million years from now?"

"I think I see it!" Jesse called out.

Rip looked where she was pointing. Ahead was a formation of rocks Matthew had described to them as a sleeping face, when seen from their planned route of course. Time and nature would slowly erase the features, but beneath the overhanging vegetation was hidden a cave in which the Worlogog fragment should have been buried forever long before any explorers ever found their way into the foothill forests of the island. There was an easier path back down the uneven slope, but the risk of missing their marker had been too great amongst all the greenery. Rip reached up and pulled back a curtain of leaves and vines. Before ever he could open his mouth there was a rush of air and Jesse stood beside him, open palms outstretched.

"Another piece gone," she reported, solemnly. "No sign of it in there at all. Signs of someone else though, and recently too. Looks like a small team, maybe no more than us."

"Bollocks," swore the captain, running a hand through his hair. "How recently? Could we catch them?"

"I doubt it," shrugged Jesse, shaking her head. "Maybe as much as a day?"

"So we're going back empty-handed?" Mick clarified. "I knew I hated this island. Now, about that other route..."

XXXX

Sara awoke to the smell of toast. She frowned, mentally listing the symptoms of concussion. "Gideon, lights up please."

"Well, if you'd slept on much longer I'd have had to take this back," mused a familiar voice.

"Rip?" Sara sat up and looked round. The medbay chair wasn't the worst night's sleep she'd had, but she still would have preferred her own bed. Especially for this. "If it gets me breakfast in bed, I'm gonna have to get injured more often!"

Rip handed her the tray. A glass of orange juice and a plate of toast. "If I make you breakfast in bed more often, will you please not do that!" He kissed her forehead. "Good morning, Sara."

"Does this mean I have to stay on the sidelines again today," she began, taking a sip of the juice, "or do I get to join in the fun?"

"Ah, well..." Rip tipped his head to the side and frowned. "It seems there really won't be much difference. We got through all but one of the remaining fragments yesterday and that's in a... Well, a rather more interesting setting."

Sara let the slice of toast fall back on to the plate. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like this?"

Rip pulled a face. "To be fair, I don't think any of us will, myself included!"

XXXX

The atmosphere on the bridge was decidedly divided. Even Ray's immortal smile had clouded over as Rip and Matthew revealed the location of the last fragment of the Worlogog.

"I distinctly remember you telling me to 'pray I need never find out' what that place was," argued Sara, all thought of headaches and head injuries cast aside, "and now you want to try taking us there?"

"We have no alternative!" Rip countered, throwing our a hand. "The pirates have almost as many fragments of the damn thing as we have! This is the last: the most powerful! With this in our hands, we could turn the tide!"

"Yeah, or we could lead our enemies straight to it! Maybe even get it out of there for them!" Sara yelled. The headache complained and she paused, a hand reaching out to the holotable to steady herself.

"What if they already have it?" Matthew suggested. "We need to know what we're up against."

"Then there's even _less_ need to go in there!" Sara rallied, turning from Matthew to Rip again. "This is the most dangerous and difficult part of the multiverse to get into! Worse to get out of! You've said so yourself, Rip! There is _nowhere_ safer! If they've got it already, there's no point risking our necks. If they haven't, it's safer in there than it is with us!"

"It's not a question of it being safer there, Sara," Rip pointed out, nose to nose with the assassin. "It's a question of it being needed here! Our enemies have banded together: time master and pirate alike. They are following two of the most dangerous individuals we know of, and those two are following someone _else_ even higher up the chain. Someone undoubtedly worse! Someone whom we know _nothing_ about! Someone who is collecting these shards to rebuild the Worlogog, completely if possible! They have half, we have half. They have an army, we have..."

"You have an army, Rip! You've _built_ an army! They're back there, at the Vanishing Point, rebuilding the base under _your_ instructions!" Sara wasn't backing down. "You have an army of trained Time Captains and their ships, willing to follow you. You have us!"

Rip broke away, looking around the bridge at the team gathered there. "Right now, the people in this room are the only ones I trust with this!" His eyes turned back to woman by his side, pleading, not commanding. Her stare softened and his voice dropped. "Please Sara: I need you with me on this."


	58. A Time to Argue

"Woah, it's like something out of Star Trek: Next Gen!" Ray enthused, gazing out the bridge window of the Waverider.

"We live on a spaceship, dude," pointed out Jax. "You don't get much more Star Trek than that."

"Yeah, but up until now it's been more of a TARDIS than an Enterprise," scoffed Ray, still grinning out the window. "We've explored time more than we have space."

"Now we are about to enter the least explored area on all our star charts," added Martin, eyes also fixed on the view ahead. "Fascinating!"

"While I appreciate your obvious scientific interest in our endeavours," began Rip, eyes fixed dead ahead for an altogether different reason, "might I remind you that, while undoubtedly fascinating, this area of space is also potentially lethal. There is a calmer area in the centre, the eye of the storm if you will. When we get there you may both hypothesise as much as you like, _after_ we have retrieved the Worlogog fragment. Until then we have to find our way through a labyrinth of twisted, folded space time, filled with massive temporal instabilities and masked by a cloud of dust and gas that has almost completely blinded our sensors, so I would appreciate it if you would both sit down and let Gideon and I concentrate."

Sheepishly, heads bowed, the scientists returned to their seats, but Ray's enthusiasm was never dampened for long. "You know Jax, we really are a bit like the Next Generation crew. I mean, Rip's obviously got to be Captain Picard, you're Geordie, Mick's Worf, Sara's Tasha, hey we even have our very own Data! Hmm, I wonder who I'd be?"

Jax and Jesse exchanged a look. They turned back to the inventor. "Shut up, Wesley!"

XXXX

For all the airs of spring that did surround them, a cold wind blew through Bishopsgate that night, as the two friends picked their way home through darkened streets lined with mud and melt-water. It brought the creeping fingers and twisting tendrils of mist from the murky river, slipping though the city streets like hunters stalking their prey. It pinched at their cheeks and stung at their eyes and noses. It rasped across their hands and rendered quiet speech impossible. Neither man would deny being glad to hear the clunk of the closing door behind them when at last they hastened into Shakespeare's rooms. The fire was lit, kindled by the man himself upon his arrival earlier that day, before leaving to seek out his friend. Together, they warmed their hands before it until, in silence, Shakespeare turned and poured them each a cup of wine.

"Melomel or sack, Will? Or need you something stonger?" Sly drawled, folding himself gracefully into a chair by the hearth. "One spirit to strengthen thy speech of another?"

"Or _to_ another?" Will murmured, handing Sly his cup. Their eyes met and it was a long moment before either man looked away. "You do not deny it then."

"To what end?" Sly purred, watching his host seat himself opposite him. "If I did would you believe me?"

"In truth?" Shakespeare sighed and shook his head. "I would not. Nor can I blame you, for the pay of a player is a paltry one."

Sly inclined his head. "There is that."

"Then monetary gain it not thine only cause?" Will frowned, looking down into his cup of wine. "Indeed, I feared as much."

"Feared? Or thought?" Sly wondered aloud, watching the other man as a cat might watch a mouse. "What fearest thou? I am no threat to thee."

"No threat?" Will set his cup on a table nearby and looked up. "William thou art my player, my partner and my friend! If thou art caught in this..."

"I'll not be caught."

"How can'st thou be so sure?"

Sly leant forward, his elbows bracing on his knees. "There is no lock in this city I cannot unpick, nor none yet made the whole world o'er! I read their secrets as easily as I do thy words, and play upon their fastness as smoothly as I do the eager groundlings."

"You grow too bold, dear William," breathed Shakespeare, eyeing his friend askance. "To bold by far and it doth worry me. For thou art changèd much these past three months, and I like not the change I find in thee."

"Enough! Speak plain! We are but we two here," snapped Sly, sitting back in one sudden movement. "Or hast thou stationed constables herein?"

"I'll parle plain if thou wilt Sly," snarled Will, rising, his cup of wine forgotten on its table by his chair. "Thou art a thief! I didst take thee in, teach thee a trade, give thee shelter, food and fellowship! I named thee! I trusted thee!"

"I have not betrayed that trust."

"Yet!"

"Should e'er I do such, pluck off my name, my share, and all that you have given me, and convey it all upon the next you hire to take my place. Let he be Sly and old William Sly forgot. Erase me from your life, as ink from parchment, and let my ghost be covered up anew: another man as palimpsest to me."

"A ghost indeed!" Will snorted, his hands thudding into his hips. "Well said, for Ghost thou art! And still thou claim'st the papers thou dost hold ae naught but dreams? Go to! They are no more, nor no less neither, than the blessèd truth! And such a truth thou can'st not now deny!"

"I am myself," purred Sly, spreading his palms in one insoucient shrug. "I know not how to be else. I am who I am, and what I am. Hold me to no more than than."

"A deity may claim as much! Ay me! But by thy papers there thou hast been known a visage of a deity of old!"

"And by those papers you would have me fly throughoutthe vast immensity of time, from far flung future to a time forgot!"

"And yet so seems it now to my own mind," sighed Shakespeare, his arms falling slack to his sides. "My secret mind I share with none but thee."

"Then 'tis not your intent to turn me in?"

"You have to ask?" Shakespeare's brows knitted as he looked down at Sly. "To what end, William? Wherein would I gain?"

Sly raised a delicate eyebrow and tipped his head to one side.

Shakespeare threw out his hands and shrugged. "My players and myself would lose our writ, our reputation and our livelihood! Myself would, like as not, be carted off, or shunned through all the city as a fool! A madman, driven wild by gross excess of vain imagination or, indeed, by sad and doleful grief for my dear boy."

Sly sat calmly, watching the poet pace up and down before his own fireplace. "So tell me, Shakespeare: what would thou of me? Wouldst have me gone? Wouldst share my stolen gold?"

"Neither!" Will exclaimed, pausing in mid-step. "Neither! I wouldst have naught to do with aught that this endeavour has provided thee! Nor wouldst I have thee gone - I love thee so - for going such might turn a watchman's eye upon thy shadow! Nay, William, I would have naught from thee but this: thy word that none should suffer by thy hand, at least no more than they can bear."

"I cannot claim the knowledge of a person's inner heart," he replied, sucking air in through his teeth, his eyes fixed on Will, "such that I might judge what each may bear, or how each might break. Therefore this I'll promise thee in its stead: that I will never knowingly take more than I think fit, nor visit harm upon the undeserving."

"What man is fit to say what harm another may deserve?" Will scoffed. "Say only this, then: that thou wilt not knowingly put an innocent in danger by thy thefts."

In the flickering glow of the firelight, Sly nodded. "So too, I swear."

XXXX

"Astonishing!"

"Professor, please!" Rip groaned, watching the physicist edge forward in his peripheral vision. "We are almost there."

"Is that it?" Jesse's voice piped up, full of anticipation. Rip could hear her and the others stand and move forward. If he hadn't needed them on the job so much, he'd have rolled his eyes.

A heavy arm thumped down on the back of Rip's chair. "You're telling me we spent ten hours trailing through that fog for that? It's tiny!"

"I think you'll find it's far away, Mister Rory," replied Rip, leaning forward in his chair. "There is a difference."

"So how big we talking then?"

"For the fragment itself, maybe half the combined size of the other pieces we've collected thus far," Rip nodded, tipping his head to the side. "That thing on the other hand we should be able to sail right into. With the right codes of course."

"What the hell is it?" Mick wondered aloud.

"It's merely a holding bay," Matthew assured him. "I designed and built it myself. It will open to the access codes we transmit. Once inside, there is a maintained breathable atmosphere produced via a biosynthetic symbiosis between the photosynthetic algae in the outer layer of the hull and the continuous running of the computer systems and generators within. The cloud produces ambient light energy with enough intensity to make such a facility feasible. I could not have built it anywhere else."

"Say what?" Mick looked round to the android, eyebrows raised.

"We get in, we get the fragment, we get out," summarised Rip. "We're out of the cloud now, so if you'd all like to sit back down, please, I will endeavour to get us there a tad faster."

XXXX

As the Waverider neared the glowing vault, Matthew Tyler relayed to Gideon the hundred and eleven symbol long entry code and the bilious green doors began to open. Rip piloted the ship to a docking point within the structure, its doors closing in the silence of space behind them. The team assembled in the cargo bay by the door. It opened onto an extendible, airlocked tunnel at the far end of which lay another door.

"Well, that was simple enough," grinned Ray. His grin turned to a frown at a punch on the shoulder from Mick. "Hey!"

"We ain't done, Haircut, and that wasn't simple," Mick explained, eyes flitting from the door ahead to the tunnel walls, roof, and floor. "Passcode with that many possibilities would take forever to hack, even with you, Roller Girl, _and_ Lisa's little pet nerd on the case!"

"You know Felicity isn't actually in a wheelchair..."

"The name 'Blondie' was taken," rumbled the pensive thief.

"You could just call her Felicity, or even Overwatch..."

"Where's the fun in that?"

The group came to a halt, Rip stepping aside to let Matthew through. "Your turn again, Mister Tyler."

There was a black panel at hand height and the android stepped forward to flatten a hand on it. A light scanned up and down, then a click sounded. Matthew leant down and flipped open a hidden panel barely an inch off the ground. "Try faking a retinal scan for this if you're not an android."

To the tune of noticeable and incredibly vocal wincing from most of the rest of the group, Tyler plucked out his right eye and held it, right way up, to the newly revealed scanner. Again, a beam of light, much smaller this time, brushed up and down the all too realistic eyeball.

"There goes my gnocchi for this evening," rumbled Mick. "Just as well the sauce goes fine with spaghetti too."

"Are there any more of these security features as we proceed, Mister Tyler?" Professor Stein asked warily.

"Only at the elevator and the final door, Professor," smiled Matthew. Before them, the door slid open with a hissing outrush of air. Matthew led the way into a pale grey corridor. He had not gone four paces before an alarm sounded and a round, black, metal ball bobbed down from the ceiling. It levelled a pair of very small, yet very obvious, guns at Matthew. It fell to the ground with a knife still sparking in its innards. "Oh yes, and the security droids."

"How the heck do you forget about security droids!" Ray exclaimed, his voice at least an octave higher than usual and for good reason. At the fall of their comrade a veritable army of small sable spheres had dropped from the ceiling all along the corridor.

"Ah, well," Tyler shot out an arm and caught Sara's raised arm. "They just need to scan me. If the first one had survived long enough to do that the rest would still be dormant, I assure you."

Sara's eyes narrowed, but she nodded and lowered her arm, and the knife within it. She did not, however, put that knife away. One little black ball bobbed up to the front of the group. It paused where the first had paused. This time, though, when the guns levelled themselves at Matthew, no knife came flying through to unexpectedly end the encounter. An iris opened in the centre of the globe and, for the third time, a beam of light shone out and scanned the contents of the corridor. The light disappeared and the Legends held their place, and their breath. A faint beeping sounded thrice and the army of demonic snowballs disappeared upwards into their forgotten barracks once more. The corridor was clear.

"Just so I know," enquired Sara, with the utmost politeness, "Are they gonna do that at every new corridor?"

"Only if I enter the panic code in the elevator," replied Matthew, in all seriousness.

"Please don't," requested Ray.

Traversing the elevator and upper corridor was simple enough, once the team knew to hold back and let Tyler take the reins. In the centre of the vault, layers deep in shields and shining metal, the final fragment floated. A second retinal scan was taken, this time of the left eye, and the piece dropped down into Tyler's waiting palm.

"Now we can celebrate, Mick, surely?" Ray opined. He was answered with a deadly glare from Mick. "Okay, so we'll wait until we're back on board."

"Come on," sighed Matthew, rolling his eyes at the pair. "We only have three scans to do on the way back."

"Three?" Jax blinked, his eyebrows rising. "Dude: we've got the thing already! What's with the security overkill?"

"An adversary could have got this far by various means of coercion," shrugged Matthew, pausing on his way back to the elevator. "In all likelihood they would not expect further resistance and would disable me here. The security measures are in place to ensure they would not be able to leave the building without myself, both live and compliant."

"What happens if the scan fails?" Rip asked, the blasé innocence of his voice making everyone freeze and look to their leader. In Matthew's pause to answer Jax, he had stepped ahead of the android and an inky globe had descended before him. Behind him he heard someone swear. He knew exactly who and why. The iris opened and a light darted out even as Tyler stepped up beside him. Instantly, the blue light turned red and alarms sounded throughout the facility. "What did I do?"

"Nothing serious," replied Matthew, leading him on by his arm, the rest of the team following. "Just set off the self-destruct sequence. Plenty of time to get out if I'm here. Probably just as well."

"Nothing serious!" Jax echoed behind them. "Dude: can't you switch it off?"

Tyler neither paused nor looked back. "I did not foresee the necessity of a cancellation code for the self-destruct sequence, given the time available for escape and the possibility of the code being hacked or coerced from myself."

"Brilliant!" Jax complained, breaking into a run with the rest. "How do you _not_ foresee maybe having to cancel a self-destruct sequence?"

They reached the elevator. It opened, receiving them without complaint and transporting them to the docking level with barely a second's delay as Tyler entered his code - a different one this time, just for the way out. On the lower level, the entire corridor was drenched in pulsating red light and echoing with the sound of alarms.

"You know what? I think I'll make a different sauce," muttered Mick as they raced along.

The team reached the outer door, Matthew scanned his hand and eye again, and they were out. The docking tunnel shook with the vibrations of nine pairs of feet, then they were gone. Rising from its resting place, the Waverider's door shuddered to a halt, enclosing the team inside.

"Gideon! Get us out of here!" Rip yelled, darting for the stairs. Halfway up he shuddered to a halt. "Gideon?"

"Not good!" Sara commented, almost colliding with his back. "Get her flying, we'll check it out."

"Indeed," Rip nodded. "Mister Jackson, take Professor Stein and Mister Rory and make sure nothing more mechanical has gone awry. Miss Wells, if you would do a preliminary sweep of the ship and report back. Observation only, Jesse: nothing more! Call us if you find something. Madame Jiwe, Mister Palmer, if you would proceed to the upper level and work down. Miss Wells and Mister Rory can work from the lower level up. Mister Tyler and Miss Lance, to the bridge with me. We don't want any more nasty surprises!"

In a blur and a breeze, Jesse was gone. The others hurried up the stairs behind her and along the corridor, splitting off into their various groups. Rip slid into the pilot's chair, hitting buttons before his back hit the rest. Sara split off and circumnavigated the office. Jesse skidded to a halt beside her to report no obvious intruders, and together they headed out to the rest of the level to take a closer look.

"How long have we got?"

Tyler glanced up at the question from the Captain. "Twenty eight point three five seconds. I could be more accurate if..."

"Quite accurate enough, thank you!" Rip shot back, manoeuvring the ship in a tight arc and seeing the other problem that lay before them. "How exactly do you plan to get those doors open without Gideon?"

"One moment, please," the android replied, his voice flat and robotic for the first time. Rip glanced round to see darkness flooding Tyler's eyes. In the reflection of the glassy orbs, he saw the door begin to open. The darkness receded. "I have transmitted the codes directly to the facility's computer system."

The doors slid open as silently as an owl's wings in flight, and as slowly as treacle dripping from a spoon.

"Can you speed them up at all?" Rip asked, accelerating.

"I'm afraid not, Captain," reported Matthew.

Rip rolled his eyes. Of course not. That would be too easy. "Then, everyone: hold on to something!"

The ship pitched onto its side, sparks dissipating into the vacuum of space as it scraped its base along one of the still opening doors.

"Are the shields down too?" Jax yelled through the comms.

"I dropped them," replied Rip, righting the ship and tapping a few keys. "We wouldn't have made the gap with them up. They're back now."

Flame blossomed behind the Waverider, lighting up the re-engaged shields and pushing the ship out into the void like flotsam on the crest of a wave. The blast faded, leaving nothing but debris where the vault had once been. Rip slowed the ship to a halt.

"Captain Hunter," called Amaya's voice through the comms. "I believe we have found our guest."

"Seems our little wobble shook more loose than we anticipated," reported Ray. "Somebody really should have told him to hold on to something too!"

"He must have some kind of personal jump device, Ray," Sara called through. "Get it off him."

"Already done," the inventor informed her. "I'll be adding this little trinket to my collection. We're bringing him down to the medbay: he took a nasty tumble when Rip pulled a Han Solo on us. There's quite a bit of blood and he won't be coming round any time soon. Guess that means we have time to check and see what other toys he's carrying!"

"Dude, you are spending way too much time with Mick," Jax commented.

"You know, these things don't have a huge range on them," Ray pondered aloud. "I wonder where he jumped in from? Surely Gideon would have picked up on him if he were here before we went into the vault."

Matthew Tyler watched the captain's face fall as a realisation struck him. Quietly, under his breath, Rip swore. "Mister Jackson, weapons first, then temporal navigation, then Gideon, in that order and as fast as you like!"

"On it," replied the mechanic.

"I'll go help," added Jesse, returning to the bridge with Sara by her side.

Professor Stein's mildly irritated voice chimed through the comms. "You do realise I'm already... Oh, hello, Miss Wells. Well, since you're here now..."

"I don't care how many of you are down there," snapped Rip, accelerating towards the edge of the ridge nebula, "just get me my targeting systems, my jump capability, and my AI!"

"I'd better get to the medical bay, Captain," announced Matthew, glancing down at the shining artefact in his hands. "I do not believe it would be wise to take this with me."

"Give it to Miss Lance," ordered Rip, his focus fully on the distance between his ship and the cloud. Behind him he heard Tyler pass on the fragment and leave. "Sara: the secret drawer behind my desk. You know the one."

"What are you thinking?" Sara demanded, hurrying up the steps into the office and heading for Rip's desk.

"That you were right and I'm an imbecile," he muttered, hearing the click of the drawer returning to its hidden place. Footsteps tapped their way across the bridge; they were joined by others, both light and heavy. Mick and Amaya, he thought. "We've got company. I don't know where, but I know they're there."

"Always keep the getaway car close," murmured Mick.

"Why haven't they fired?" Amaya wondered, peering out the window. "Surely they can see we are leaving."

"Either it's a solo craft and we already have the pilot in custody," began Rip, his attention still fixed on flying.

"Or it's not and they're waiting for a signal from our stowaway," finished Sara, one hand resting on the back of Rip's chair as she too searched the view for any signs of life. Her fingers stretched out and pressed against his shoulder. She felt him lean back into them. "I'd say we have until we reach the nebula before they decide he's out of the picture. Then they'll open fire. Can you make it look like we've no weapons control even when we do?"

Rip shook his head. "Not without Gideon. Anyway, we _don't_ have weapons control."

"Yet," Sara added, and glanced down to see the corner of his lip curl up.

"Yet," he echoed.


	59. A Time to Break

"Any time you like, Mister Jackson!" Rip called through the comms. The view through the Waverider's window was now nothing but the glowing, lustrous nebula. In less than two minutes they would reach its inner edge. Without Gideon tracking their progress, they could end up anywhere. Without temporal navigation, they would simply be caught and buffeted in the swirls and eddies of the maelstrom raging within the cloud. Within the Ridge. He knew a little about how the nightmare before him had formed. The high density of space-time created by the random and ragged folds had created a gravitational pull all its own. The nebula was a mere accretion of all the dust and gas that had been dragged into that gravity over the immensity of time, both past and present. Without the time drive they would be like a swimmer caught in a sudden current: helpless but to stay afloat. To take the ship into the nebula in such a state would be tantamount to suicide. Of course, they had to get there first.

"Weapons coming online now!" Jax yelled, slamming the panel door closed and hurrying to his next task. Jesse was there already.

"I've re-routed power around the damaged area," she reported, "but I don't know enough yet about how this thing works to..."

"You did good. I got this," Jax told her, daring to drop a hand onto her shoulder. "Go help Grey get Gideon going."

"Try saying that five times, fast!" Jesse grinned, blurring over to a panel on the far side of the room, where Martin was rebuilding a damaged circuit board.

"I fear this may take some time, Jefferson," called the professor, feeling the rush of air by his side that signalled the speedster's arrival.

"You get that, Captain?" Jax called out, focussed on his work.

"Affirmative, Mister Jackson," replied Rip, with equal focus. "How goes the time drive?"

"Nearly there, Rip. Jesse's done most of the hard work," reported the mechanic turned chief engineer. 

"Do what you can," nodded the captain. "The pirates' ship will be around here somewhere. I'll hold them off as long as possible before entering the ridge, but the battle may make your job somewhat more challenging."

"When doesn't it?"

Rip chuckled under his breath at the younger man's world weary response. He cut the engines, letting the ship coast towards the edge of the nebula. By this point, he thought, anyone out there must know there's something wrong, both with the Waverider and with their operative. The time to attack was in striking distance. Sara knew it too. He could feel her hand slide over his shoulder. A tiny movement, invisible to Amaya and Mick where they still stood, unmoving in their readiness, but one that meant more to either himself or Sara than the other two fighters could possibly know. One that said: whatever happens, I'm with you.

"We got company!" Ray yelled through the comms. It was starting.

"Go," Rip ordered. "Help Ray."

He felt the hand squeeze his shoulder then leave, Sara and Mick departing in haste and without comment. No more comment than a roar of glee from the thief, at least. One set of footsteps was notable by their absence.

"Madame Jiwe?" Rip queried, searching the clouds beyond for a sign of their enemy.

"Someone should remain in case this is a ruse to draw our attention from the bridge," replied Amaya, standing her ground, waiting for any sign of intruders nearby.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," quipped the captain, his eyes flashing to where he caught a sudden break in the endless nebula. He targeted the spot and watched it.

"Your battle lies outside the Waverider," persisted Amaya. "You must be free to concentrate on that. I will make certain that you are."

Rip sighed. Now really was not the time to argue about that and, anyway, she had a point. "Very well."

The image of a ship flashed into view again, then again. Rip adjusted his targeting and fired. A ghostly outline sizzled with power as the shot hit its target and coruscated around the shields. The enemy ship popped into view again, disappearing as Rip heard the sound of a new arrival behind him. Blue light blazed in the corner of his eye as Vixen took on the spirit of some unknown jungle beast. Judging by the roar, and what he knew of her, probably either a lion or a gorilla. The sounds of battle filled his ears. That was the catch then: every time the cloaking dropped, another jumper appeared on the Waverider. The cloaking dropped away again. The ship appeared on the other side of his view. Great: they were blocking them. Rip readjusted the weapons systems to its new position and fired. Light flashed in the silent vacuum of space as his volley met one of theirs. The Waverider rocked, buffeted by the attack but undamaged. Rip glanced away from firing to check the shields. They hadn't been at full power before the blast, thanks to the destruction of Mister Tyler's vault, now they were worryingly low. They might take another hit like that, but not much more, and the pirate ship was between them and the natural cloak of the nebula.

"Mister Jackson! Shields!" Rip commanded calmly, his eyes already back on his target. They were still visible and that worried him. Maybe they couldn't fire with their cloak up. Maybe he had damaged it in one of his shots. Somehow, he felt sure, there was more to it than just that. Behind him he heard the sounds of battle cease.

"Taken power from Gideon, Captain, but that should hold them," called back Jax.

A scream interrupted Rip even as he drew breath to reply. He felt the air in his lungs leave him and his blood freeze in his face. He knew that scream. "What's happened? Mister Rory! Doctor Palmer! Sara! Report!"

"I'm okay," answered Sara, though to Rip's ears she sounded anything but! "The pirates are retreating. Jumping back. They got our stowaway, but we got one of them."

"The two here have jumped back also," agreed Amaya. "I knocked one unconscious and the other left with her."

"And the scream?" Rip persisted, watching the pirate ship as it made no attempt to avoid his guns.

"Miss Lance has a broken leg," diagnosed Tyler. "Mister Rory also appears to have dislocated his shoulder. Our new captive is in more danger, though: I must attend him first."

"Professor Stein, get to the medical bay and help deal with the injured," Rip ordered. "Mister Jackson: I have a bad feeling about this!"

"Two more minutes, Captain!" Jax called back. "Almost there!"

"I would advise against time jumping with injuries this severe, Captain," Tyler interrupted.

Rip's eyes spotted something and widened. "Make it one, Jax. We might not have two! Mister Tyler, I'll give you as much time as I can, but our options just got severely limited!"

At the rear of the pirate vessel, new guns had extended upwards. Larger guns. Guns only the largest warships of the Time Master fleet had ever been fitted with. They were powering up. Under his breath, Rip swore. He tuned his targeting systems to the new threat. Too late.

"Brace for impact!"

XXXX

William Sly strolled down the street in Cheapside, his extracurricular activities complete and his loot stashed in one of his many hidden caches. The moon was high and full, and the hour late. No matter, that: he had no performances or rehearsals to rise early for on the morrow. His rooms were near and easy to enter without his neighbours or landlord noticing.

The summer season had come and gone, bringing with it the customary jaunt round the country houses of the high and mighty. True to his word, William had not endangered his friends and colleagues through his unsociable hobby, confining himself merely to picking the occasional pocket or cutting an overly tempting purse. It worried him, though, that he had been absent from London so long. The absence of the Ghost had surely been noted; likewise, so would his return be noted. There was a pattern there, if any man cared to look for it. When the players were in London, the Ghost was in London. When the players were absent, the Ghost was absent. When the players returned, the Ghost returned. Conclude, conclude: the Ghost was a player!

He had been careful not to let the dates of the Ghost's crimes match too perfectly with the comings and goings of the Lord Chamberlain's Men, but there were limits to his powers even there. He could ensure there were times, while the Lord Chamberlain's Men were in London, that the Ghost did _not_ strike; but he could not ensure that there were times during their absence when he _did_. He only hoped any who questioned the pattern beginning to emerge could be persuaded it was merely a case of the hunter following its prey.

The streets around the tavern lay silent and still, shrouded in darkness broken only by the scattered beams of moonlight through the gathering clouds. There would be rain on the morrow, Sly thought. Light or no light, his hands gripped the crumbling cracks in the tavern wall and heaved, his feet finding familiar footholds without so much as a second glance. It wasn't as steady a surface as stone, but the wood and plaster framework made a malleable enough surface to carve a route into, and he had made sure to do so long ago. Like so many buildings in that corner of the ancient and meandering city, stone was something reserved for the rich. Even the church, Saint Clement's, was of wooden construction; unlike the sturdier, stone built churches of his companions' more plentiful parishes. In seconds he reached the loosely shuttered window of his rooms. A cloud drifted over the moon, shrouding the wall in darkness. When it had passed, he was gone.

XXXX

"On my way to the bridge with Ray and Mick!" Jesse called, when the worst of the rumbling explosions had died away.

"Time drive's functional!" Jax added, sounding as if he had plenty of other issues to deal with now that one was solved. "There's only enough power for one jump though, Rip."

"We must go now, Captain Hunter," ordered Amaya, staggering over to a chair as the ship shook. The pirates hadn't stopped firing their smaller guns when the big ones came out to play. Shields were failing fast.

"Status report!" Rip yelled through the comms. He ducked in his chair as a small explosion above him dislodged some wires. Behind him, a rush of air heralded the arrival of Jesse. A loud and vehement curse heralded the arrival of Mick. Rip glanced behind him. The three of them were seating themselves in the chairs, ready to make the jump. Mick was not happy he needed help with the restraints.

"He's stable!" Matthew yelled back, a disembodied voice in the chaos. "We've stopped the bleeding and dealt with the broken arm. There's still the chance of a concussion, though."

"We can't wait any longer, Captain," called Amaya, blinking as sparks shot out of the holotable beside the chair she was already settled into. "Our shields are down. The ship is breaking up!"

"What about your other patient, _Doctor_?" Rip persisted, calculating and recalculating as the enemy cannons powered up once again. They would not survive another hit. Not from those things. He entered a set of co-ordinates.

"I'm good!" Sara yelled back. "Get us out of here, Captain!"

"We haven't set the fracture yet," interjected Matthew, but Sara cut him off.

"Fix me later. Make the damn jump, Rip!"

"Hold on!" Rip ordered, slamming the lever forward and taking the ship into the treacherous tides of Jurgen's Ridge.

The Waverider rumbled and raged against the forces buffeting its wounded sides. In the medical bay, sparks jumped from the mechanical arm of the scanner. Sara wrapped her arms through the sides of her bed and set her teeth. Opposite her, Matthew and Stein braced themselves against the wall brackets, their latest guest lying oblivious on the other bed. Tyler was glaring at her. Stein knew better.

On the bridge, Rip's focus was on the road ahead. Without his AI, without a navigator, he was flying solo, ignoring the occasional grunts and curses coming from the chairs behind him. They were all strapped in. They'd be fine. As long as he got them through this part of the timestream without making his ship explode, at least. Behind him, he was aware of Jesse's slight yelps at sparks showered around them, Mick's curses when a sudden movement jolted his damaged shoulder, Ray and Jax's involuntary grunts as the air was knocked out of them by the same, and Amaya's silent glare. He could feel it boring into the back of his skull. Well, let her, he thought. He was the captain. He had a duty to ensure the safety of all his crew members. That meant checking _everyone_ was safe to jump, not just the worst wounded.

He was also aware of silence from Sara. That worried him more.

The Waverider limped out of the timestream into a softly glowing nebula. One of the ordinary, simple kinds, if ever such a word could be applied to the birthplaces of entire solar systems. Rip was out of his chair even before they had drifted to a halt.

"Doctor Palmer, Mister Jackson, get to work on repairs. Doctor Palmer if you would look to the computer systems and Mister Jackson to the rest: you know what you're doing. Prioritise the shielding obviously. Mister Rory, dislocated shoulder or not, you should be able to oversee repairs from here, once you get the holotable working again. I'm sure Miss Wells will be able to help with that."

"And what should I do, Captain?" Amaya asked, with just a hint of acid in her voice. "Provide more advice for you to ignore? If you had listened to me in the first..."

"If I had listened to you in the first place," Rip shot back, "Mick, Ray and Jesse would probably be dead, perhaps along with Sara and the our latest guest too. Do you know how dangerous it is to jump through time when a speedster is en route through your ship? I don't? I don't want to find out either! I _do_ know how dangerous it is to time jump with serious injuries! Do _you_? Perhaps you should help Mister Jackson, or Doctor Palmer, for now and get to know this ship a bit better before you start telling me what it _can_ or _cannot_ do!"

Ignoring the looks the rest of the team were surreptitiously giving him, Rip stormed out in the direction of the medical bay. When he got there, Stein and Tyler were bent over Sara's leg in deep concentration. Sara herself was unconscious. Stein looked up.

"Miss Lance passed out during the jump, Captain," the Professor assured him. "She's just unconscious. Nothing to worry about. She'll come round in a little while. Right now we thought it might be a good time to commence the more painful aspect of her surgery."

Walking round the bed to its end, Rip glanced at the bone protruding from Sara's shin. She should have been screaming in agony, not ordering him to put her through more pain. If Gideon were up and running, the break could be reset and fixed in a heartbeat. Without the AI and her systems, though, they had to rely on the old fashioned medical methods. Matthew was peeling back the white leather of the Canary suit, one leg now cut open to the knee. Another thing Gideon could fix if she were online. The delicate porcelain pallor of Sara's skin was now a rapidly darkening mottled purple. Half way up, the bruised skin was torn and punctured by the sickening red and white of bone and blood. Rip turned away, his stomach heaving. His head filled with a buzzing and he stumbled. Hands caught him and guided him to a chair, staying with him and holding a bucket under him. He was aware of a low voice speaking softly, but he couldn't make out the words. Gradually, the buzzing faded and the words came through.

"And I never did find out his name," Martin was murmuring, one hand still on Rip's shoulder, the other on the bucket. "I will always remember waking up on the sidewalk, Clarissa standing over me, fanning me with her purse. She told that story over and over at dinner parties for years afterwards. Her big, strong husband, who faints at the sight of blood. Of course, she exaggerated things terribly. According to Clarissa, I would pass out if I simply cut myself shaving, but in truth, it was nothing like that. It wasn't even the blood. It was merely the shock of seeing another human being in so much obvious pain. It spurred me to attend a series of first aid classes, and interest later took over and led me to take a qualification course in emergency medical care. A qualification which, albeit trumped by _Mister_ Tyler's memory of _Doctor_ Tyler's medical and biochemical degrees, has proven highly useful..."

"Thank you, Martin," Rip muttered, the fog in his brain clearing. "I'll be fine now. I promise you. It was, as you say, just the shock."

Stein looked dubiously at the Captain's pale face and considered the thickness slurring his words. Nevertheless, he patted the younger man's shoulder and rose to his feet. "We'll be right here if you need us."

He left the bucket.

XXXX

"What ails thee, Will?" John Heminges glowered over his ale. "I would not drink alone."

William Shakespeare looked up, his mind recalled from distant places. Hr blinked a few times and waved a mute hand at William Sly, perched on the wooden bannister of the Curtain's empty lower gallery, one leg swinging, one bent at the knee and resting along the topmost spar, his back to the supporting pillar. In answer, Sly raised his cup and waggled it meaningfully before raising it to his lips.

"Aye, an' _he_ drinks like the very devil!" Heminges muttered, scowling at the quiet, answering chuckle from Sly. "Enough to madden a man but that he drinks no more than a sip for each mouthful!"

"Perhaps, next time we play Marlow's Faustus, we should cast you as the doomed Doctor and he as your demon," smiled Will, staring into the depths of his cup.

"Thou knowest well what demons do haunt me," grunted Heminges, looking down at his cup and setting it aside with a rueful grimace. "But say: what demon keeps thee from thy drink?"

"I would were Burbage and his brother here," sighed Will. "Our other sharers and young Henry too."

"Then 'tis our money matters mar your mind," nodded Heminges, pulling a face. "We are yet above water, Will. Do not trouble thyself needlessly."

"We will not remain as such for long should Burbage carry on his nit-picking over the Theatre. He is costing us patrons, not least in the private theatres within the walls! An he keeps on his nigh-nosed nonsense, we'll have no warm business this winter and little enough else to fill our purses withall!"

"'A will surely come to his senses soon enough," shrugged John, waving away the poet's concerns.

"What senses?" Will spat, slumping back against the wooden bench behind him, propping himself up on his elbows and stretching out his legs to the bench in front, carefully avoiding knocking over their jug of ale. "Bertie got all the sense there ever was in the Burbage blood. His brother got all the ego!"

"What would you then?" John sniffed, moving the jug of ale further from his friend's feet and refilling his cup while he did so. He was the closest of the three men to the beverage, sitting straddling the foremost bench it rested on. Four empty cups lay nearby. "Wouldst talk to him? Wouldst have _me_ talk to him?"

Shakespeare looked at the collection of empty cups. His dark, heavy eyes counted the missing heads. A clown, a musician, and two Burbages. "Would that Phillips and Kempe were here; but both, it seems, have greater calls upon their time."

With the lazy stealth of the most pampered of house cats, Sly turned his keen eyes upon the playwright. "Why?"

Heminges put down his cup and sat up straighter, looking now from one man to the other in obvious interest. "Will?"

Shakespeare let his head fall back and sighed. Slowly, his eyes caressing every beam and joint of the structure around him, he sat up. "I have an idea," he began, still taking in the myriad details of the building around them. "'Tis one that begs the hearing of us all, for it will take us all to make it real. It is a risk, and humbly I do own that this may bring us all to beggary. We can no longer merely keep afloat. 'Tis sink or swim. Methinks I have a boat."

Heminges' eyes narrowed, his hand slipping absent-mindedly to tug at his beard. Sly's eyes narrowed too, but for an altogether different reason. Where Heminges had listened to the substance of Shakespeare's words, Sly had listened for the delicate tracery of something else behind them.

"What manner of idea, Will?" Heminges asked, leaning forward.

"And what manner of risk?" Sly added, swinging his leg down from the balustrade to turn and face his friend. Shakespeare met his eyes briefly, then looked away, focussing on the distant stage.

"What might we do if all of this were ours?" Will murmured, dreamlike, to the air.

"Earn more than just out daily crust for starters," laughed John, picking up his cup again. "But we have not the coin to buy the Curtain, Will! Even were it plain that old buzzard wished to sell it!"

"No," frowned Will, looking down at his own cup and reaching forward to refill it, "no, we could not _buy_ a theatre."

"But you _could_ build one," finished Sly, honing in on the trail of the unspoken thought and knowing, somehow, in ways he could neither comprehend nor describe, that he was right.

Shakespeare's eyes met his again and this time it was the poet's that narrowed. "Indeed."

"To build our own theatre?" Heminges mused, shaking his head. "Even with the brothers Burbage, with Phillips, and with Kempe, we could not hope to do it! Where would we build? And with what?"

"I have a few spots of ground in mind," shrugged the dreamer. "One to the west, another to the south. South is cheaper: 'tis o'er the river in Southwark. 'Tis also by the Rose, however, and by this we may suffer. The land in the west, therefore, is where my preference lies."

"Choose the south," stated Sly, a hand rubbing at his short but meticulous beard.

Shakespeare's eyes snapped up to his again. "Why?"

Sly regarded his friend. None but Will knew the contents of the papers he had brought with him from his long forgotten past; and none but Will believed that anything those papers said was true. If Will, a dreamer by nature and thinker of impossible thoughts, saw truth in those tales, thought William, he would like as not treat any advice from Sly's direction as prophetic visions of the future. He weighed his words with care. His gut said Southwark, but beyond that he had no argument the poet had not already mentioned.

"'Tis cheaper," he shrugged, "and competition is only competition if 'tis as good as you are. They are not."

"Are those your only reasons, William Sly?" Shakespeare pressed, unflinching in his scrutiny of the thief.

"They are my best ones," he replied, locking eyes with Will once more.

"Tell me of the space in Southwark," broke in Heminges, oblivious to the unspoken interrogation raging between the other two men.

"'Tis cheaper than the other," nodded Will, with a grudging half shrug. "'Tis still beyond our means alone, though. We would lease the ground and build our stage upon it ourselves. 'Twould need money from all sharers, more, perhaps from Richard and Cuthbert. Their name would be advantageous in securing the lease also. Mayhap we will require more sharers, also. Sweet Hal, perhaps, may care to increase his share in this respect, being yet so junior a partner in our enterprise."

"Mayhap," agreed Heminges, nodding, "but that is the lease alone. There it still the cost of building to cover, and the materials to find."

"The materials we have," Will proposed slowly, leaning in towards John. "At least Dickie Burbage does."

"The Theatre," drawled William, a slow smile spreading appreciatively across his face. "You want to move the whole building."

"James Burbage built it," shrugged Will. "His eldest son now owns it. Just not the land it lies on. At present."

"You want to steal a theatre," Sly smirked, amusement dancing across his features. "You want to steal _The_ Theatre!"

Will sighed and threw a weary look at his friend's mischievous grin. "Not steal," he corrected, "just move. The building itself, by rights, belongs to Burbage. If it did not, he would not yet be arguing over it. No, all I propose is this: the company of the Lord Chamberlain's Men leases the land; the brothers Burbage, with the aid of the men and boys of said company, take down their Theatre, piece by piece and timber by timber, and move it to the new site. We shall require artificers to aid in the reconstruction of the building, but, mayhap, should the company lend what skills they have and what labour they can, and should the sharers extend their purview to a share in the cost of the building itself, and thus the profits also of course, we could, by heaven, achieve it. We would have to cut our cloth to suit our means, but when has that worried us before?"

Heminges seemed to consider this. "We would be forced to trim our sails somewhat," he mused. "Artificers are expensive. Even after building is done, what tasks we can take on alone in our plays, we must."

Will nodded. "You are with me then?"

"To th' ends o' th' earth, Will," proclaimed John.

Shakespeare turned to Sly. The thief said nothing but nodded once, his jubilant grin reduced to a solemn, Machiavellian smirk.

"Then we are men of one accord," announced Shakespeare. "Thou wilt stand with me when I put the case to Burbage and the others?"

"Aye," Heminges nodded.

Sly gave a slowly smiling bow. "I must say, my friend," he smirked. "In all my forgotten life, I do not believe I have ever stolen an entire theatre before!"

"Burbage senior built it," a sighing Shakespeare reiterated with a wearisome wave of his hand. "He bought and paid for each and every timber and hair in that great edifice, and the time and skill to raise it into being - the first of its kind in London - and all that falls to Burbage junior. Dickie _owns_ the thing! He cannot steal that which he already owns!"

Sly tipped his head, the corner of his lips curling further. "Oh no: let us not spoil it, dearest Will."


	60. A Time to Mend

Rip sat alone in his office. The bridge was deserted. Gideon was back online. Repairs were going well. The workers were all tucked up in bed. Even Stein had looked in to say he was leaving the medical bay in Matthew and Gideon's capable hands for the evening, then proceeded to tie himself in knots verbally regarding Gideon's physical lack of said appendage. Rip should have followed their example hours ago, but every time he closed his eyes he saw her lying there. It was a new nightmare to add to the collection. One of his own making. _Another_ of his own making.

He raised his glass to his lips, but it was empty. Sighing, Rip pushed himself up out of his chair and headed for the decanter. A slim hand closed over his as he reached for it and he felt his shoulders drop. Another arm wrapped around him and he felt her lean into his back.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"What the hell for," murmured Sara.

"Hurting you."

"You didn't. That was just one of the larger, angrier, type of space pirate."

"I sent you in there..."

"That's your job."

"You were hurt because of me."

"That's _my_ job."

"No, it isn't."

"Listen, if we're gonna go out there catching bad guys, rescuing good guys, fixing time, and fighting our way through a whole mess of other stuff all the while, one or other of us is gonna get hurt every now and then."

"Which is why we should have had a better plan in the first place."

"Wasn't your plan."

"It was my call, though."

"It was the right call," Sara hugged him tighter, breathing in his scent. "It all worked out in the end. We got out. With our target. Everyone's alive. Everyone's in one piece."

"You weren't."

"I've had worse."

Somehow, that didn't make him feel better.

"It's not just the injury, Sara, it's what happened afterwards too."

"You mean when you flew the ship into the freakiest part of the timestream blind and saved all our lives?"

"I mean the pain it caused you. Sara, you were out cold! You were white as a sheet! God, for a second there, I thought I had... I nearly threw up."

Her arms were both wrapped around him now. "I know. Martin told me. Said you nearly passed out yourself."

Rip rolled his eyes. He hadn't planned on mentioning his fainting fit. He took both her hands in his, raising one to his lips. She didn't even try to hold back the sigh that washed over them in response. "I just couldn't take the idea that I'd been the cause of that. I don't ever want to see you hurt, let alone at my doing."

"I told you to make the jump. My choice."

"I should have been following medical advice."

"Medical advice would have got us all killed. Tactical trumps medical."

"Sara," Rip began, turning in her arms. He paused, looking down. He frowned. "Is that my shirt?"

The pyjama shirt hung loosely on Sara's slight frame. She tried to look innocent. "Well, you weren't gonna be using it and I needed something to put on to come find you."

"What was wrong with your own clothes, exactly?"

"I thought I'd surprise you," she pouted, trailing her fingertips up over his chest and shoulders, "but I got bored waiting for you to come to bed and I didn't wanna put everything back on so..."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think..." Rip was cut off by Sara's lips on his own.

"You think too much, sometimes," she told him, "and you need to stop apologising for everything!"

"I..." Rip caught the look Sara gave him and rethought his sentence. "I know. I'll try."

"Besides," she began, releasing him and stepping away. "I wanted to show you this."

She hopped up on the desk and crossed her injured leg over the other, swinging her foot to and fro.

"Look," Sara pointed out, running a hand down her now smooth shin. "All fixed. No lasting damage."

Rip walked over to her, his eyes sliding from hers to her shin. The broken bone no longer protruded. The skin was no longer torn. The bruising had faded from shades of purple to shades of yellow and the only sign of the internal damage was a fine white line shining in the warm lights of the office. He sank to his knees and took the bruised leg in his hands, instantly stilling her movements.

Running his fingers over the healing skin, he glanced up and met her eyes. "Does it still hurt?"

"Not with the pain meds Gideon doles out," Sara replied, the playfulness gone from her expression.

Rip pressed his lips gently to the new scar on Sara's leg.

"You know, if we're playing that game, I think I have a few more bruises and scars needing attention," she smiled, raising one suggestive eyebrow when he met her eyes again.

"I bet you do," grinned Rip, rising to his feet again and leaning down to kiss her. "Now are you fit to walk on that leg still, or am I suddenly going to have to carry you?"

"Well, if you're offering..."

XXXX

"Must I, Will?" Sly grimaced at the meeting. "'Od's blood, I am heartily sick o' dying!"

"Then thou might find thyself in but a small role in this piece, Master Sly," chortled Richard Cowley, another of the Lord Chamberlain's Men. "Our poet knows how to turn a tragedy!"

"Thou hast played the part before and served it well," Will retorted, folding his arms and staring Sly down. "We already have Burbage as our titular hero and Heminges as his deadly foe, and neither of them survive! What wouldst thou? Play the maiden? She falls also! The aged father? Then who will play my younger men?"

"Let him play the rival," called Heminges from the other end of the group. "He, at least, dies not until the last. Do you take on Mercutio's role, Master Cowley. Thou art our clown and he is Romeo's."

"I?" Cowley exclaimed, looking round in fright. "I cannot play such a grand part! I thumb my nose at Montagues and insult their womenfolk is all!"

"Aye, thou didst," nodded Heminges, "before Master Kempe announced his departure. Now, surely, his roles are thine?"

Cowley opened and shut his mouth a few times, looking wildly at the far wall, his mind counting up the roles Kempe's absence granted him.

"Thou canst keep thy nose-thumbing Capulet, Cowley, an thou makest a smart change o' 'tire," offered Heminges, seeing the comedian's imagination bloom with prospects.

"Aye, 'tis doable," nodded Will, eyes examining the overhanging ceiling of his new stage in thought. "Only just, but 'tis doable, and we must needs take on as many parts as possible. What say you Master Cowley?"

Richard Cowley bobbed an acknowledgement in the affirmative, his voice lost in the forests of his mind.

"Then it shall be so," proclaimed Richard Burbage, gracing the group with his presence for the entirety of that day. "Master Cowley shall take on Mercutio as well as his usual, favourite role. Master Faulconbridge shall impart prologue, priest and 'pothecary, as usual. Myself shall play the dashing hero, and Master Heminges my valiant adversary, fiery Tybalt. Master Pope presents the Nurse and my aged father. Master Condell takes on the fair Prince and thy scurrilous companion, Cowley. Master Phillips and Master Sinclair thine opponents in that first scene and entertainers at the ill-fated revels, wherein I meet young Master Gilbourne as my beauteous lady. Master Shakespeare shall present Benvolio and old Capulet's cousin. Master Sly shall present Paris. Have we boys for the Ladies Capulet and Montague?"

"We have but one for both," replied Shakespeare, looking down at the list of roles in his hand. "They do not appear together, as I recall. I shall lay out the double roles better in my mind, though, should we 'hearse the piece in full. Come: let us spend the rest of this day conning our diverse parts and meet here on the morrow to play it through. I fear our lack of men may play us false in this mournful tragedy."

"We managed well enough in Julius Caesar," opined Cuthbert Burbage in his soft, quiet voice. "The only changes we needs must make affect Kempe's characters and those of the actors who take them on. I will draw up a fresh plot of who in on stage in each scene."

"I have not yet tired of Julius Caesar," piped up Condell from a corner of the huddle of men, a big, honest grin suffusing his face. A susurration of amusement rippled round the troop; the memory of the eager glee with which the ever cheerful, bright and homely Hal had launched into his first attack on Burbage's Caesar burned fresh in their minds. Burbage himself bristled at this: he had not forgotten either.

"'Twas a right royal way to Christen our new home and introduce it to the city, Hal," laughed Shakespeare. "But 'twill not do for this month. March, mayhap, may see a reprise of that role, but February is home to Saint Valentine's day, and a play of lovers it more apt."

"Even if 'tis a play where the lovers end by killing themselves!" Sly quipped. He raised his hands in silent apology at the look Will gave him, but the smile never faded from his face.

"Had I leave to do so, I would have chosen our newest comedy, William, you know that," Will snapped, as irritated by the fact as by the reminder of it. "Our greatest patron has requested this, and neither you nor I am in a position to deny her. We shall simply have to postpone your reprisal of Benedick until spring."

Burbage the elder sniffed, his nose in the air and his ample personage resonating with wounded pride. His were the title roles. He had taken as kindly to being usurped in this by the stoic Sly as he had to being murdered by the gentle Hal. Burbage the younger smirked.

"If there are no other queries?" Will began, hopefully, but Heminges had raised a hand. The poet's shoulders slumped.

"Where shall we spend our purse tonight Will?" John cried out, laughing.

"About the play!" Will clarified sharply, throwing his friend a look of deepest displeasure. A rolling rumble of no and nay flowed over the tiny crowd. Shakespeare relaxed. "Good."

XXXX

"Hey, Ray," called Jesse, sticking her head up into the elongated dome of the observatory. "Mick says if you're not down for dinner in two minutes he'll eat yours."

"Okay, I just gotta finish this set of readings, then I have a half hour before the next run," babbled the engineer, not taking his eyes off the gadget in his hand except to stare, wide-eyed at the pulsating light above them. Jesse climbed the rest of the way up the ladder into the dome and looked over his shoulder. There was a blur and a gust of wind and Ray looked down to find the readings done. "Hey!"

"It's the spinach and ricotta soufflé, Ray," explained Jesse, turning her fellow physicist to the exit. "I don't think he was kidding."

Ray's eyes widened. "Ah. The soufflé. Right. He did say he was gonna try something special to celebrate."

"Well, come on then!" Jesse urged, shoving him towards the observatory's narrow opening. "That thing up there isn't gong anywhere and neither are we. Not until Jax and I are done with the repairs. I can carry you through the corridors, but you're on your own with the ladder!"

Dinner truly was something to celebrate, even in itself. With the last fragment of the Worlogog safe, at least for now, and the Waverider in serious need of attention, Rip had piloted them into the relatively safe harbour of a normal, glowing miasma of dust and gas, the clouds concealing them just as the nebula in the Ridge had blinded them. There were no errant folds in space-time here, though. The team had split off into groups, each attending to what had become their own expert areas. The captain, with his second, had set to work on the bridge and planning their next move. Matthew, claiming Amaya's aid, had begun tidying and restocking the medical bay, all while keeping a watchful eye on their still unconscious guest. Jax had started working on the many mechanical issues with a team of four, even making use of Ray and his A.T.O.M. suit to mend the scrapes and scratches Rip's stunt at the vault doors had caused. Four had dropped to three when Ray got a good look at an odd little anomaly they were parked beside, however, and it wasn't long before Martin had abandoned his post in the engine room to interrogate his erstwhile pupil on his findings. He had been so distracted that Jax had given in and sent him to join Ray in the observatory. That, once he was done with what heavy lifting he could manage with his good arm, left Mick on kitchen duty. He had promised the workers a feast both to celebrate their success and revive them from their labours. He had meant it.

As Ray and Jesse seated themselves around the large table, pale pink fillets of trout, cooked in white wine and capers, were placed before them.

"Eat fast, Haircut!" Mick barked, laying the last plate on the table. "If this soufflé sinks I'm putting you on clean up duty for the next month!"

"I'm eating! I'm eating!" Ray blurted, picking up his outermost knife and fork. Six pairs of eyes were politely looking elsewhere, mostly at the food they were now eating. Mick was glaring at him and Jesse grinned as she glanced between the two. Ray ducked his head and swallowed a mouthful. "Sorry everyone. Thanks Mick: this is really good!"

The pyromaniac chef, still wearing a pink, frilly apron, growled wordlessly and sat down to his own meal. The trout was followed by a mouth-wateringly baked chicken breast, stuffed with sage and cheese, and served with green beans and, of course, the infamous soufflé. It was Mick's culinary nemesis: the one thing during his enforced education in juvie that he had never been able to get quite right. When he turned to remove it from the oven, the whole table held their breath. More than two of them were holding hands, albeit out of sight of the rest. Mick turned, bearing aloft his latest triumph. After all they had endured, and all the battles they had won, here at last was a triumph they could openly applaud.

The whole table cheered.

XXXX

"Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death," intoned Burbage in sepulchral tones, "gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth, thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, and, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!"

"'Tis thy cue, William," whispered Cuthbert Burbage, unseen behind the curtain Sly lingered in front of. "William!"

A sharp prod in the back woke the player from his apparent reverie. He started forward, staggering in his haste. "This is that banish'd haughty Montague, that murder'd my love's cousin, with which grief, it is supposed the fair creature died; and here is come to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies: I will apprehend him."

Sly stumbled further forward, stepping out toward centre-stage. Trance-like, he spoke his lines, challenging Burbage as he had every afternoon those past ten days, bar Sunday: letting that part of his mind he didn't need play out the role of the doomed rival, whilst the rest tried to make sense of what he had just seen.

A face in the crowd.

A face from his dreams.

A face, perhaps, from memories long forgot.

Mechanically, he raised his arm to parry great Burbage's thrust, sword meeting sword with all the clang, clash and clatter the crowds expected. This was mere muscle memory now. But a few lines more and he would be folding gracefully into that heroic attitude of death at the feet of his beloved Juliet, stuck there, unmoving until the Prince, Hal, brought the play to its dismal conclusion. They had discovered at the first of their only two rehearsals - a luxury taken to ensure all parts could be played by the shrunken company and that lll the modern conveniences Will had demanded be built into their playhouse worked for their respective parts in the production - that for all his skill in speech and stage fighting, Richard Burbage could no more lift the length and weight of William Sly, without inelegant difficulty, into the Capulet tomb than he could an ancient oak!

Silently he lay, turning over thought after thought in his mind, ignoring the penitent, passionate speeches above him. He had seen the man before. He was certain of that much. He was equally certain he had never seen him in London. It was the face that had been so familiar, not the garments. The face and the stance. He knew how this man's body moved. The swagger of his shoulders, the stoop of his back. He could picture him walking away, a long coat flying out behind him like a cloak. A coat of a brownish colour. But not always. There were other memories there. Memories of strange grey garments clinging to three sombre forms: his own, the man's, and another. A woman.

A fair-haired head flashed though his mind, with blue eyes shining like the deepest sea. It brought with it a name.

Sara.

But that was not Sara by his side.

No, the woman by his side had been dark of hair and eye, and the child on her hip had once sat on the man's, then on his shoulders, passing between mother and father throughout the play as each one tired, always high enough to see above the heads of the other groundlings. It was a more egalitarian arrangement than Sly had seen in the yard before.

Even so, William Sly might have put all this down to a mere passing resemblance to someone he had seen once in a crowd had it not been for one thing. It was the way the man's face had changed when he spotted him staring. At first, the unknown stranger had registered mild confusion, a natural enough reaction in any who caught another watching them with such intensity. What should have then changed to either annoyance or embarrassment, however, moved to recognition instead, then to confusion, then to icy, impenetrable calm. Sly could feel the stranger's eyes on him still. They burned into his prone form like ice. Like a chill that permeated his skin and muscle and sunk right down into his bones.

He had felt a chill like that before.

Again the image of that mysterious face floated through his mind: Sara. But the stranger was not Sara and neither was the woman or child with him; so why did he associate him with her name?

The play ended to rapturous applause. Mind still twisting, Sly stood, bowing with the rest. In turning, he caught the strange man's eyes again. He had moved, forcing a way through the press of people, away from his wife and child, to the usually locked door that led to the tiring house, allowing the money collectors and their takings easy access to the room where Cuthbert's chosen acolyte stood guard over the company's properties chest. Sly filed out dutifully to the tiring house with the other players, ignoring the odd looks he was receiving from his fellows. He did not hear Will call his name as he turned to make his way to the unused properties room, towards the door the stranger had been so pointedly standing near. His blood pounded in his ears as stopped opposite the inner side of the door and felt the stranger's eyes on him again. He turned. His head was swimming.

The stranger stepped into the light of a grimy window. "Who are you?"

Sly tipped his head on one side. This was not a phrase he had expected from this man. He felt the world shift beneath him. "Who are you?" Sly asked, and disappeared.

XXXX

"What is it has you two so _fascinated_ up here anyway?" Jax enquired, hauling himself up the ladder into the observatory.

"Why, take a look for yourself, Jefferson," waved Stein, gazing up in that familiar mix of rapt admiration and insatiable curiosity that marks every true scientist in their own specialist field. "It's utterly..."

"Fascinating?" Jax supplied, raising an eyebrow at the anomaly above them. "Grey, I'd be more fascinated if I had the faintest idea what that thing was."

Stein sighed, gave a shrug a Frenchman would be proud of, and shook his head. "Yet it is the mere fact that we do _not_ know what it is that has such encompassed Doctor Palmer's and my attention these last few days. From what we _can_ discern thus far, this shimmering pool of light above us is the very heart of the whole nebula. On either side of the nebula are two super-massive stars orbiting around each other in an enormous binary system. Even though they are so distant, they are still large enough, dense enough, to exert a gravitational pull each upon the other. Indeed this gas itself has been pulled, we think, from the outer layers of one of the two stars and is not held here in some kind of gravitational balancing act. We were only just beginning to study systems live this back home and, as Doctor Palmer once said in Russia, 'no-one's ever seen one this close'!"

"Grey, your concept of 'don't know' worries me," opined Jax, watching the rippling light show above them with a wrinkled brow.

"Hey, do you think Rip would let us go a bit closer?" Ray wondered aloud, excitement colouring the edge of every word.

Jax looked at the two physicists and thought: kids and candy stores just don't cover it!

"I'm sure he wouldn't begrudge us edging just a little bit closer," murmured Martin. "He has given us access to basic propulsion so that we might better study the anomaly from a variety of angles. Gideon, take us in say, er, a quarter of the distance more, please."

"I do not believe that would be advisable, Professor Stein," replied the smiling voice of the AI.

"Would it put the ship in immediate danger?" Martin demanded.

"Not immediate, Professor..." Gideon began.

"Grey," Jax warned, laying a hand on Martin's arm, "I don't think..."

Stein shook off Jax's arm. "Gideon, take us in, and that's an order!"


	61. A Time to Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All three new characters, minor as they may be, for now, are written with particular actors and, in one case, character, in mind. Feel free to send in your guesses.

Sara was the first to come round. She groaned at the flickering lights of the Waverider's dying power supply, raising a hand to shield her eyes. A movement by her side drew her attention away from herself. She rolled onto her front, still not trusting her legs, or head, and dragged herself over to the captain. Like her, he had been thrown against the wall in the dizzying aftermath of the explosion that sent them hurtling through space. Unlike her, he seemed to have hit his head on something. Blood matted the hair behind his left ear. He groaned.

"Rip," Sara muttered, "open your eyes. Wake up."

"Blondie?" Mick's voice called over the holotable. "Where are you?"

"Over here!" Sara shouted, then coughed and groaned at the pain that shot through her ribs and back with the effort.

A moment later, Mick was at her side, picking her up and sitting her on the holotable. "Here, let me see. No broken bones?" He held up his hand. "How many fingers?"

"Ugh, I'm alright," Sara groaned, rubbing the bruised ribs that had complained loudly at her sudden ascent, no matter how gently the pyro had handled her. "Just a little groggy. Get Rip to the medbay. He's bleeding. How are the others?"

"Haircut's throwing up where Gideon can keep an eye on him," replied Mick, kneeling down to check the captain. "Tin Man's with him too. He's fine. Professor's in the medbay already. Didn't wanna take any chances. Rest are still unconscious."

Sara watched Mick stand and move away from the captain. She tried to keep her breathing steady, control the fear that was rising in her, but she was sure he could see it in her eyes. "What are you doing? Why aren't you taking him to the medbay?"

"I am, Sara," frowned Mick, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder and frowning at the unusual vehemence in her voice. "I will. But I ain't moving him on my own. There's a stretcher in the medbay. Tin Man can help me get him onto it. Haircut too, if he's done puking. I don't know much about first aid, but I know you don't take chances with head injuries and unconscious people. We'll get him on the stretcher, as safely as we can, and get him to Gideon. You gonna be okay here if I leave you? There's a chair on the other side of here that still looks stable enough if you'd rather have your feet on the ground."

Sara weighed her choices. All the chairs in her eye line were either broken or tangled in fallen wires. That meant the chair Mick was talking about was out of her eye line. She wouldn't be able to see Rip from it. Her head was still spinning, and nausea raged in her stomach, but she didn't think she was going to pass out again. She started to shake her head and winced. "I'm good here, Mick," she replied, digging her fingers into the holotable to give her something else to focus on. "Go get Matthew and Ray. I'll keep an eye on him from here."

The big man disappeared, returning just a short minute or two later with the two doctors in tow, the former rushing ahead to check on his new patient, the latter looking green and carrying a stretcher under his arm. Under direction from Tyler, the three manhandled their captain onto the stretcher, taking care to support his injured head and potentially injured neck. Matthew and Mick hoisted the unconscious man up and ferried him off to the medical bay, leaving Sara alone with Ray.

"You okay?" Ray asked, leaning heavily on the holotable and looking ready to throw up again.

"Little woozy," Sara slurred, loosening her hold on the table now that her lover was safe. "It'll pass."

"You don't sound so good," Ray commented, raising a groggy eyebrow at her.

"You don't look so good," Sara retorted, smirking and waggling a finger at his sickly pallor.

"It'll pass," he echoed.

"Help me down?" Sara asked, holding out an arm to the inventor. "Might need a bit of help getting to the medbay too."

"I think there may be a queue when we get there," quipped Ray, taking Sara's arm and helping her down. Her knees buckled as soon as her feet hit the floor and he wrapped an arm around her waist, catching her before she fell. "Want me to carry you?"

"I'm good," she murmured, willing her legs to take her weight. "Just don't let go until we get there, right?"

"You got it," nodded Ray.

There was a queue. Ray propped Sara up against the wall and went to find a chair for her. Martin was unconscious in one bed, a sheet of blue light working its way down his body, scanning for internal injuries. Rip lay in the other, Matthew leaning over him, cleaning the wound in his skull. A sheet of blue light was scanning the captain too. Sara felt a stool slide into place behind her legs just as they began giving way again. She looked up at Ray.

"Thanks," she sighed. She inclined her head towards Rip. "He's gonna be pissed with you when he wakes up."

"Eh," Ray shrugged, "he has every right to be. And I think 'furious' is maybe nearer the mark."

"Why?" Sara frowned. "What don't I know?"

"Uh, well," Ray began, sinking down to sit on the floor beside Sara's stool. "You know how we couldn't jump anywhere before, but we could still fly?"

"Yes," Sara drew the word out, glaring at the side of the scientist's head.

"Well, er," Ray paused, his eyes fixed on the two beds of the bay, both occupied thanks to his latest escapade. "We may be slightly stranded now."

"Slightly?" Sara enunciated very carefully, daggers in every syllable.

"The radiation burst from the anomaly threw the ship further into both space _and_ time. Gideon had to use the rest of the fuel to stop us. We only have enough power left for life support and medical."

"What!"

It took almost two hours for everyone on board to regain consciousness and get checked out by Gideon and Matthew. Martin was the last to wake up, which meant Ray had to deal with explaining their situation to Rip alone. He also had to take the brunt of the captain's fury alone. When he exited the office, crestfallen and sheepish, he had to take the glares of the others alone too. Half an hour later, Rip called everyone to the bridge.

"I'm sure you are all well aware of our current situation," he began, casting his eyes over each of them in turn, trying not to linger too much longer on Sara. "We now lack any means of propulsion, unless, of course, we ask Doctor Palmer to get out and push! We also require considerable repairs throughout the ship. I have discussed the matter with Gideon and result is this. We need to acquire a new fuel source. The other repairs can be completed easily enough with the tools we have on board. There are three levels to the ship, we have three maintenance experts available: Doctor Palmer, assuming he doesn't make things worse again, Mister Jackson and Mister Rory. I suggest Mister Tyler stays with Professor Stein in the medical bay and takes care of any work needing done in that area; meanwhile, the three ladies pair up with our three experts and each pair takes a level each. Mister Jackson, your expertise and knowledge of the Waverider are second only to mine. You are in charge for the duration. _I_ must now take the jumpship and be busy elsewhere, so I am trusting you not to blow up my ship while I am gone!"

"Gone?" Sara's brows rose with her voice. "Gone where? You have a head injury. You're not going anywhere!"

" _Somebody_ has to get us a new fuel supply, Miss Lance," Rip shot back, a little more aggressively than he had meant to. "I believe I am the only one here that knows how and where to do that."

"Fine, but there's no way you're going alone," she persisted. "Not even if Gideon says you can!"

Rip sighed and glared at Sara. She glared back and folded her arms. His jaw tightened. "Fine! You can come. I dare say a bodyguard might come in handy."

"If a bodyguard is required, surely I would be better suited?" Amaya interjected, her eyes narrowing at Sara. "You are not well yourself, Canary. How will you defend our captain when you can barely walk?"

"I'm well enough," snapped Sara, "I woke up before you did."

"I was not diagnosed with minor concussion by Gideon," purred Amaya. "You were."

Rip rolled his eyes. Well this would be interesting. "Fine! Both of you can come with me. The rest of you stay here and fix the ship!"

Sara only stumbled once on the way to the jump ship. She blamed a trailing cable. As Amaya turned to check the door seals for damage, Sara and Rip exchanged a look. The silent message passing between them was clear. "Do you think she knows?"

XXXX

The flight in the jump ship was awkwardly silent, but Sara was grateful for the quiet. Sitting in the co-pilot's chair by Rip's side, she almost forgot their extra passenger seated serenely behind her. Watching them. When the ship dropped out of its jump by the space station, she even jumped at the sound of a gasp from Amaya. The station was huge. Not as meandering as the Vanishing Point base had been, but definitely as large. Maybe larger. A shining, shimmering, metallic sphere rotated at the centre of three concentric tubular rings, dragged around by eight great spokes joining them at each of the eight compass points. Rip brought the jump ship into a docking portal on the inner edge of the outermost ring. Docking bay doors clanked shut overhead and a rushing sound indicated the repressurisation of the room. Rip pressed the keys to open the door of the jump ship and stood, waving a hand graciously at the ladies to persuade them to precede him out of the vessel.

The interior of the outer ring reminded Sara of something out of Star Trek. She thought, absently, that Ray would love to see this place. Centrifugal force replaced gravity in the ring, and Sara had to keep reminding herself that the spherical centre of the station was 'up' for them. The biggest reminder was the elevator. It was so large there was seating inside. An embedded screen, similar to the Waverider's faux windows, showed information and commercials for the various areas of the station. There were the usual service depots that one might expect at such an outpost, offering to stock up the buyer with tools, spare parts, fuel, medical supplies, water, fabrication recipes, emergency rations, fresh food, real alcohol and more. There were also the little businesses that gradually accumulate at any large gathering of people. Restaurants, medics, and spiritual advisors of all kinds, including several that Sara had never heard of. There was a gym, a communications hub, a games hall, and something referred to simply as 'the rec'. The elevator stopped at each level of the second of the three rings, then again at the innermost, then finally at the sphere. Rip led them out at the second level, ushering them towards a brightly clad female behind a desk, whose features spoke of an ancestry reaching back to the Indian subcontinent. She bowed slightly to Rip, her palms together.

"Namaste, Captain Hunter," she intoned, smiling serenely. "So good to see you again."

"Namaste, Meera," replied Rip, mirroring her actions. "We're just here for a few spare parts. Time ship parts though. Is Sullivan still trading?"

"All the winds of the solar storms could not tear Sullivan away from his shop," laughed the concierge. "You will find him in his usual clutter. If you cannot see him, just try leaving with something and he will be sure to see you!"

"I'm sure he will!" Rip smiled back, bowing slightly. "Many thanks, Meera."

"Safe travels, Captain Hunter," nodded Meera.

"You seem to be well known here," commented Sara, lengthening her stride to keep up with him. "Aren't you worried they'll tip off our old friends?"

"Nah, they've no connection with the Time Masters," shrugged Rip. "Not beyond me, anyway. And Miranda, once upon a time."

Sara studied his face. There was a look of mingled sadness and calm nostalgia playing across it as he scanned his surroundings. She frowned. Then the penny dropped. "This was your place, wasn't it? You and Miranda. This place was some sort of secret little hideaway for you."

Rip looked down and laughed. "Yes, guilty as charged, I'm afraid. I found it, years and years ago, when we were both still in training. It was supposed to be a routine mission to test our piloting skills. Well, not that routine: it was the toughest test of solo flying they set. Once you passed, that was you. Miranda, of course, passed first time. I was not so lucky. On one of my failed attempts, though, I was knocked out of the timestream to here. This fascinating little outpost on the edge of uncharted space. My ship was damaged, so I took a chance and hailed them. Asked if I could come in for repairs. I docked. Found myself in a maze of corridors and rooms I had never encountered before. Was taken to one Sullivan Cooper, Chief Engineer, and left in his capable hands to explain my problems. He steered me to his favourite restaurant on the station, sat me down, ordered food for both of us, then asked me all manner of questions. I didn't know it at the time, but mine was the first time ship he ever worked on. He taught me more about engineering and mechanics than any of the Time Masters. They relied on the AI's for most of that. I was stuck here a week. By the time I got back, most of the Time Masters had given me up for dead. I've never seen Miranda so close to giving us away as when she saw me walk through that door into the lecture theatre. I even put Druce off, turning up like that, mid-lecture. He actually stopped talking and stared at me."

"What did you do?" Amaya inquired, reminding the other two of her presence once again.

"I said 'sorry I'm late' and sat down," Rip shrugged.

"You said 'one' of your failed attempts," pointed out Sara with a sly smile. "How many were there?"

"Aha!" Rip laughed. "That, my dear Miss Lance, is classified."

"I'll find out," she warned him.

"I'm sure you'll try."

"I can always ask Gideon when we get back."

"Ah, but Gideon wasn't my AI then," he grinned. "Training vessel. Training mission. Use the AI, you fail. Automatically."

"But there may still be a record somewhere in Gideon's files," shrugged Sara. "She has full details of every Time Master on record, including you."

"Ah, now that's where you're wrong," smirked Rip. "You see, when I realised they hadn't met a Time Master before on this station, I made a decision. I could have used the AI to get back, but I didn't. Then I edited part of the ships log entries to make it look like I had landed on some moon or other with a base..."

"There are moon bases?" Amaya cut in.

"On multiple moons?" Sara added.

"Time ship! Future tech!" Rip laughed, waving his hands around expansively. "You didn't think the Waverider could only go millions of years _back_ in time?"

"Actually, I'd never really thought about it," mused Sara. "So you falsified your records to hide this place. Okay, but you obviously came back with Miranda. Did you delete or change the entries every time?"

"Once I passed the final flight test, and was given a ship, the Waverider, it got easier," Rip nodded. "I just installed an algorithm to make the computer record one set of co-ordinates when in reality I was entering another: the co-ordinates for here. I installed the same algorithm on Miranda's ship, making sure it recorded a different set of co-ordinates and that both systems cycled through a number of them, picking a different set at random each time to avoid a pattern being detected. We were still in training, so we could only get away during solo missions. Most of the time during training, you have a supervisor for each of your missions, but every week there would be one or two solo mission days. We would agree to meet up here. Spend the day, sometimes a few days, hiding out from our lives, then jump back to where we were supposed to be, when we were supposed to be there."

"Does Gideon know this?" Amaya frowned.

"She does now," nodded Rip, still walking swiftly onward. "She didn't at first. But I disabled the algorithm that ensured her primary loyalty was to the Time Masters. She learns with time, just like a child, and forms a bond with those she sees regularly, again, like a child. I merely made it possible for her to avoid forming that bond with the Time Masters. Once she had formed it with me, I could come here with impunity. After we were caught and Miranda resigned, I would pick her up in the Waverider and bring her here. Gideon formed a bond with her too. We were safe. Protected. Gideon would automatically edit her records to hide everything Miranda and I did from the Council, and anyone else that tried, or tries, to find out."

"So she has hidden all her records of this place," Sara shrugged. "Doesn't mean she's hidden how many times you failed that test."

"Hidden, no," Rip smiled. "Locked down under privacy regulations, yes. Ah: here we are."

The open fronted shop looked like a messier version of one of Rip's storerooms once Mick had been in there looking for something and Ray had been in there tinkering. Sara was just wondering how some of the smaller items on display at the front of the shop hadn't been pilfered already when Rip walked into it, a light blue force field zipping around him as he crossed the threshold. On a hunch, Sara reached out a hand to the nearest item and attempted to draw it through to her side of the force field. An electric shock ran through her as the little round ball touched the field and was zapped out of her grasp. She withdrew her empty hand and shook it, massaging the tingling fingers and hurrying to catch up with Rip. He was leaning back against a pile of boxes, Amaya already on the far side of him. An infuriatingly amused and expectant smile was dancing on his face.

The sound of hurrying footsteps made Sara look round, trying to determine their location and owner. Soon, both became clear. A heavily built, bearded man, baseball cap covering thinning hair, bustled out of the stacks of boxes muttering curse words under his breath. There were a few Sara had never heard before, but the way he said them left her in no doubt that that was what they were. He stopped when he saw Rip, glanced suspiciously at the women flanking the captain, then sidled up to them.

"I wondered what idjit set that thing off," he muttered. Rip pointed an unrepentant finger at Sara. Sullivan looked her up and down then turned back to Rip. "Who're these two? Where's your girl?"

"These are two of my crew mates, Sullivan," smiled Rip, indicating each of the women as he introduced them. "Miss Sara Lance and Madame Amaya Jiwe. Miss Lance is one of a group of people who joined me in an attempt to prevent, and then avenge, my family's death."

"Sullivan Cooper, chief engineer, retired," Sullivan nodded to each of the ladies, then considered Rip's words for a moment. "Your boy too?"

Rip nodded, his jaw tightening momentarily.

"Jeez, that's rough," sighed Sullivan, shaking his head and sucking in his breath through closed teeth before he spoke again. "No parent should ever have to go through that, in any way, shape or form."

"That is a sentiment," replied Rip, "with which I cannot agree more."

The older man clapped a paternal hand on the captain's shoulders. "Come on. I got some Scotch in the back. Traded it for a box of automorphic polycarbonate tubules. There's less of it around these days, so I been tryin' to persuade Amelie to let me set up a crop and a still in the rec. She don't seem to think it's good for me, though, so she's bein' stubborn. Says there's better things to use the space for. Like that darn vineyard of hers, no doubt!"

Amaya and Sara looked at each other, then followed the two men through the maze of stacked crates.

XXXX

William Sly staggered and rebounded with a wall - a wall that had not been there before. Sunlight filtered down from a clear blue sky above and strange odours filled his nose. It was true then. Everything Will had been trying to convince him of. Everything written in those strange documents - so familiar in their hand yet so alien in their substance. Every odd memory and forgotten dream.

Of course, mayhap, he had but sleepwalked here, or been rendered unconscious, or entranced. But surely not? No half-timbered alley of London bore so much hewn stone as this, and he had lost no time. The world had blurred around him, certes, but not to darkness entire; and, when the colours changed and swam into focus again, the dizziness had passed. The nausea had not.

He leant over and threw up, stretching out a hand to a nearby wall and almost stumbling again when he realised, in shock and horror, that he had no feeling in his hands. Already a graze oozed blood from the edge of the smallest finger on his right hand. Panic threatened to rear its despicable head as William contemplated the prospects of a thief and a player whose hands would not obey him. He searched his memory - not for the memories of the events themselves, but for his memory of reading about them. There, in the cluttered and catastrophic chaos of his mind, he found some straws to cling to. This had happened before. Not just the vomiting, but the paralysis too. It was temporary. It would fade. All he needed to do meantime was keep his hands safe from any more cuts and scrapes. That and work out where he was of course.

And when.

He was in a city, he was sure, but a deserted one it seemed. The alley was walled in stone from the ground to the sky, and the stench rising in the heat of a bright sunny day to meet the unbroken azure of the clear blue sky above, was quite different from that of London's alleyways. There were some aromas that permeated all city alleys alike, it seemed, but there were many others that did not. They remained anonymous and unidentifiable, but whatever they were they did not belong in any alley Sly could remember. He was not in London anymore.

William Sly looked down at himself, still garbed in the vibrant, shining raiment of the noble Paris, elaborate ruff, blunted stage poniard and rapier, crimson cape and all. Beauty may provoke thieves but so too did riches and poor weaponry. He ripped his ruffled collar from his neck, the rings from his numb fingers, and chain from his breast. He daubed mud on the shining buttons and buckles he could not easily remove, and on the colourful cape whose silk lining shimmered in the sun. No doubt he still looked outlandish and easy prey hereabouts, but at least he was now marginally less likely to catch a greedy eye immediately. Nevertheless, he must needs use caution! Rich or poor, whomsoever he first saw in this strange city, he must attempt to emulate their manner and dress. Wherever, whenever, he may be, people were still people: good, bad, saintly, evil, indifferent, desperate, cruel, kind.

He wondered which of that litany he was.

XXXX

"What's the big deal?" Sara shrugged, scanning the hodgepodge of vendors and their wares. "Your pal, Sullivan, says he can have the gizmo for tomorrow and I'm guessing staying over on this place isn't exactly a new experience for you."

"Maybe not," snapped Rip, dodging a hurrying shopper, "but it was much safer then. Back then, Miranda and I only had the Time Masters to hide from. Now _we_ have just about half the galaxy after our heads and the rest of our crew stranded on an ailing time ship. The sooner we're back, the happier I'll be."

"The jump ship can be programmed to arrive barely after we left and you know it," retorted Sara, throwing him a look. "You might have spent a night on a space station before, but I haven't."

"Nor I," agreed Amaya, watching the people passing them as they walked.

"What's the harm in..."

Rip stopped and raised a finger. "Do not," he warned, "finished that sentence. Every time you start an argument with that line, something goes fantastically, horrendously, _magnificently_ wrong! And we really could do without any more bar fights!"

The two women, flanking either side of the captain, had turned to face him. As one, they folded their arms and glared. Rip groaned and cast a pleading look upwards. They were less trouble when they _disagreed_ about everything. He closed his eyes and shook his head. They really had no option anyway. And it wouldn't exactly interfere with his plans.

"Fine," he conceded with a sigh. "We're not going anywhere anyhow. Back to the reception desk."

The ladies exchanged a smirk behind his back as the outnumbered captain barged ahead through the crowd, leaving them to follow in his wake. When they caught up with him he was already busily discussing matters with Meera, their heads bent close together over the desk. Rip looked round and caught sight of them, hanging back patiently, if somewhat smugly, at least on Sara's part. He nodded and turned back. Meera handed him something, which went straight into his pocket, and leant in to say something again. He laughed and nodded, then shook her hand and turned to his waiting crew.

"Come on then," he sighed. "Elevator five. We're in the inner level of the middle ring. Three adjacent rooms. Nobody above us, and, if we're lucky, we might have landed one of the ones with the panoramic windows in the..."

"I call!" Sara interrupted.

"Er, I'm the Captain here," Rip reminded her. "And I'm paying."

"With what?" Sara scoffed, spinning round to face him when they reached the elevator. "Currency made by your ship that can fabricate as much as it likes of anything?"

"Not _entirely_ as much as it likes..." Rip began.

"What do they even use for currency here anyway?" Amaya enquired. She had been watching the other people on the station all through their stay so far, and had never yet seen anything like money change hands.

"Not much," shrugged Rip. "Money's just another barter item here, and even then not worth much. You can't eat, drink or build with it. It's not a weapon or a trinket. The currency here is simply everything and nothing. A bottle of Scotch. A day's labour. A favour. A secret. A fact. The news that there's been a meteor shower on _Mars_ is of more worth than a few scraps of printed paper or shiny rocks out here!"

The elevator doors hissed open and swallowed them. If Sara had thought the trip up had been entertaining, watching this brave new world flit past on the overhead screen, nothing prepared her for the trip down. Quite definitely, she took much care to note, not Rip. The floor fell away from her and she got an unforgettable lesson on why the ceiling of the elevator was so very high. Both Sara and Amaya had been standing when the room started moving, and they floated upwards until even the backs of the chairs were out of reach. While she had to agree that the look of panic on Amaya's face, and probably, momentarily, on her own, had been amusing, Sara could not help but find the expression of smug merriment on Rip's face infuriating. Rip who, at this particular point in time, was seated in one of the comfortable chairs, legs outstretched, arms crossed and criss-crossing seat belts holding him stubbornly in place. The barely suppressed laughter dancing across his features made her want to laugh too, despite her annoyance and irritation. She averted her eyes and tried to stay stern.

The elevator neared the inner ring and gently slowed, returning the free-fallers safely to the floor. Amaya buckled herself into a nearby chair in record time. Sara refused to give Rip the satisfaction, and folded herself into a cross-legged pose on the floor. The elevator accelerated again and she rose serenely into the air, one hand resting on each knee, her eyes fixed haughtily on Rip. He matched her with a smiling gaze of his own, one hand raised to hide the actual smile tugging at his face.

The rooms were side by side just a short distance widdershins from the elevator. Before Rip had removed the key cards from his pocket, Amaya was standing by the middle door, arms folded. He knew Sara would have spotted his pause at this, he wondered if their chaperone, deliberate or accidental, had. Nevertheless, he had expected something of the sort. He shrugged and handed Amaya her key card, then turned to Sara and handed her one of the others.

"Well, the rest of the evening is yours to use as you wish, ladies," he breezed, turning to the door closest furthest from the elevator. "I have some work to be getting on with. Do try _not_ to get us permanently barred from here: it's one of our few remaining safe havens! Sara: that means don't get blind drunk and don't start any bar fights!"

"Aww, where's the fun in that?" Sara teased, heading for her own door. "Can I at least seduce someone for the evening?"

Rip paused, halfway through his doorway, he leant back and his eyes snapped up to hers. "I think I'll leave that up to you."

Sara closed her door behind her and leant back, her grin no longer needing hidden. Whether Amaya knew about them or not, and Sara was a good ninety percent sure the other woman knew something at least, she had just made this little outing a hundred times more interesting. Amaya had thrown down a gauntlet to them, intentionally or otherwise, and Rip, it seemed, hadn't even thought twice about picking it up. She looked down at the key card in her hand, then removed it to reveal the slip of paper he had passed her. For a moment, Sara paused before unfolding it. Had she ever really had a serious relationship that didn't involve at least some degree of sneaking around? Did she enjoy it too much? First there was Ollie, and hiding her relationship with him from Laurel. Then there was Nyssa. That relationship had to be hidden from Ras al Ghul himself! At least at first. Then there was Oliver again, and this time it wasn't just their relationship but her very existence they were hiding from her family. Now here she was, sneaking around with Rip. Would the rest of the crew really flip out so much if they found out? Would Mick? He had been her greatest worry. He had been Leonard's best friend, now she considered him hers, other than Rip of course. Come to think of it, Rip would probably put him in that category too these days. She wasn't entirely sure what category Ray put him in. Perhaps Mick and Ray had a category all of their own.  
Perhaps they already thought the same about her and Rip. Would they be so shocked, so upset, if she and Rip came clean? But without the need to sneak around, even in some capacity, as an assassin or a vigilante, would her relationship with him survive? It hadn't exactly started in the most traditional, or romantic, of manners. Was she really starting to fall for him or was it merely an illusion caused by circumstance?

Sara unfolded the paper in her hand. "Meet me at the Hub bar in one hour," she murmured, reading each word gently, as if even a harsh look could snap this fragile thread she was clinging to. "Don't dress up, just come as you are. You'll need the boots and the jacket."

Prevarication faded into the mists of time as a new puzzle took over her mind. Her eyebrows had risen at the last few words of the missive, but now they fell, contracting in confusion. What was he planning? He was obviously planning something. He wouldn't have bothered with the second set of instructions had he just planned on drinks in the bar. And he could plan fast, but not that fast. Not without help. Unless of course, it was a plan he'd used before. Her eyebrows rose again at that thought. This had been his and Miranda's hideout. That was why he had announced his intention to come here alone. Not that they knew that at the time of course. Had she known she would have backed off when he declared himself fit and able despite all appearances to the contrary. Sara looked up and frowned. But she hadn't known. And he knew she didn't know. And he surely knew she would never let him fly the jump ship alone after an injury like _that_. And he hadn't suggested he take someone else and she stay on the Waverider as the dutiful second in command she was supposed to be. Now that she thought about it, he really had given in _far_ too easily! Damn the man! He had been planning this all along! The only person not behaving exactly as he had wished was Amaya! Sara sucked air in through her teeth and shook her head. How long had they been together and he could still pull her strings? She walked over to the bed and threw herself down on it. It was comfortable at least. More so than the ones on the Waverider. She looked up at the mildly curving ceiling.

"Computer, do I have a panoramic view in here?" Sara asked the air.

"You do, Miss Lance," replied a deep, gentle Australian accented voice. "Would you like me to open the shutters?"

"Yes..." Sara blinked. "Computer, how do you know my name?"

"It was attached to your key card upon purchase, Miss Lance," replied the computer. "As are all our guests'."

Sara thought about this, her eyes flitting from one edge of their orbit to another. "Computer what do you do with someone when you don't know whether to kiss them or kill them?"

"Killing is not legal on this station," reported the computer, its tones becoming decidedly patriarchal.

"Well, I guess that narrows it down some," she sighed, rolling her eyes. The stars opened up above her and encircled the spherical centre of the station like some kind of invisible, glittering halo. Sara smiled. She bit her lip. "Computer, can you soundproof this room?"

"All rooms are automatically soundproofed for the privacy and comfort of our residents," smiled the velvety voice of their computerised concierge.

Sara noted this information and tucked it away in her mind, absolutely one hundred percent sure she was not the first person in their little trio to find this out. "And how do you suggest I while away the next three quarters of an hour?"

"The monitors in the room are capable of displaying any of a wide range of archived interactive video games, television show and films. Most recently added to our collection is the latest season of popular favourite 'Sherlock'. Critics say that, as the show returns for its much awaited tenth season, programming of the holographic characters continues to improve. Acting of live characters is above par. Writing and directing is a tribute to the memory of the two heroes of televisual literature behind the creation of the show. Fans have yet again been disappointed, however, by another season's lack of superwholock."


	62. A Time to Love

"You're an asshole," stated Sara, walking up to Rip in the station's bar. He smirked and began to say something but was cut off by Sara's lips on his own, her hands cradling his face, fingers tangling with his hair. "A stupid," she kissed him again, "silly," and again, "sweet," and again, "romantic asshole and..."

This time it was Rip who cut Sara off with a kiss. "And I'm yours. But can we save all this for later, please? I have something I'd like to show you. Oh, and food. I also have food."

Sara leant back and looked where Rip was indicating. Behind his feet lay an old fashioned, wickerwork picnic basket. Red and white checked top and all. "Well that ain't for in here," she murmured, letting her hands slide down, under the collar of his jacket, to his shoulders. "Where're we headed, Captain?"

"Aha," he grinned. "But if I told you that it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?"

Sara grinned back, letting her hands fall to his. "Okay then, Casanova, so show me."

Rip raised her right hand to his lips and kissed it, then leant down and picked up the basket, releasing her other hand to do so. He led her to a different elevator and took them down five floors to the second outermost level of the sphere. It was the same level as the reception desk and Sullivan's shop, but it was a part of it Sara had never seen before. Opposite the elevator itself lay a pair of guarded double doors that Rip headed straight for. He passed something to one of the guards, which was checked and passed back to him, then looked over his shoulder to Sara.

"Close your eyes," he grinned.

Sara's smile broadened and her eyes narrowed for a moment, but she closed them obediently. She heard the swish of opening doors, felt a breeze of fresh, clean air on her face, and let Rip lead her blindly forward. The doors closed behind them, cutting out the hum of noise from the station to leave only a faint, static-like hiss, and Rip warned her to keep her eyes closed. She felt his arm encircle her, leaving her hand but guiding her onwards. It was so quiet she could hear their footfalls, tiny almost silent steps tapping on what felt like stone. Finally she heard, and felt, him put the picnic basket down and wrap both arms around her. His lips brushed her neck, softly working their way up to her ear.

"You can open your eyes now," he whispered.

"You keep doin' that I won't want to," she breathed.

He laughed. She'd forgotten how much she loved hearing him laugh. It had been such a rare occurrence for so long. She ran her arms further along his as they held her, intertwining their fingers. It had been hours since they had last eaten, maybe even a full day, but it had been an eternity longer since they had last had the chance to be alone together like this and she relished his closeness.

"Open your eyes, Sara," said Rip, resting his head by hers. "Open them."

She blinked her eyes open and they immediately widened. They were outside. But that was impossible! And yet there it was before her: the sky, complete with fluffy white clouds, trees, fields, farm buildings, a rolling hillside covered in the straight rows of a vineyard, rising up to a tall cliff haloed in a white spray. Suddenly the static sound she had heard made sense.

"Is that a waterfall?" Sara's brows rose, dragging the corners of her mouth with them. "What is this? Some kind of holodeck?"

"It's real," Rip grinned back, his arms still holding her close. "It's all real. This, Sara, is the rec. The recreation dome. Technically speaking it's more a sphere than a dome. It forms the heart of the space station. It has it's own water cycle. The plants grown in here recycle air to produce more oxygen for the station. Most of the fresh fruit and vegetables are grown here. There are chickens too, and some sheep, goats, pigs, cattle. All the usual farm animals. All self sufficient. There are grain crops, orchards, the vineyard there. There is a still, but don't tell Sullivan: I was sworn to secrecy about it long ago. There's a river and a lake, with fish and water birds. The waterfall provides hydroelectric energy for the station. There's sailing on the lake, kayaking on the river, a climbing wall at the waterfall, a cycling trail. I believe Amelie was very insistent about that and there's even a station race once a year all round it. She's very protective of her historical culture. Just because she grew up on the edge of the galaxy, she says, should not mean she cannot connect with her cultural roots. Sullivan has a few things to say about that. He usually doesn't get very far with them though. They've been arguing over one thing or another for years!"

"She sounds like a character," smiled Sara. She felt his hold on her loosen and fall as he picked up the basket once more, and let out a soft noise of complaint.

Rip smiled and caught up Sara's hand again. "Come on, we've got a bit of walking to do if we're going to get there in time."

"Get where?" Sara eyed him suspiciously, following where he led. "In time for what?"

"You'll see," he shot back, a knowing smile brightening his features. "Come on."

They walked along the path until it reached the edge of the river, then turned away from it onto a much smaller trail. It wound up an increasingly rocky landscape, through silver birch and beech trees, sycamore, chestnut, bay, hazel, oak and many more that Sara couldn't name off the top of her head. They climbed and climbed, following a path Sara was sure had been picked out by deer, not people, until the land suddenly flattened out. The hiss of the waterfall had risen to a low roar throughout their journey, then had faded, muffled by the trees and rocks. Now it filled her ears again. The trees gave way to shrubs, then grasses, and the river appeared before them. It seemed to stop suddenly, and Sara realised they were at the top of the waterfall. Spray rose up into a sky that was several shades deeper than it had been when they entered the forest. Rip noticed Sara frowning up at it. He tugged at her hand.

"Not far now," he assured her, nodding over to the edge of the precipice. "Then all will be revealed, I promise."

She glanced sideways at him, her smile growing to match his. "Go on then."

He led her over to the clifftop, dropping the basket gently onto the turf and raising his hand. Sara looked where he was pointing and gasped. Far off, by the edge of a sparkling lake, a glowing orb was sinking in the sky.

"It's a sun! How? It can't be real, right?"

"In the sense that it is the main source of light for the biosphere here, and one of the main sources of heat, yes it is very real," replied Rip, sliding his arms around her again. This time their fingers interlocked in one smooth, instinctive movement. "In the sense that it is a giant ball of gases undergoing nuclear fusion, less so. The outer wall of the biosphere is covered in holographic projection panels, capable of emitting the entirety of the electromagnetic spectrum but usually confined to the visible part, the infrared part - heat, and a limited level of ultraviolet. The minimum required for the plant life to grow properly. The holo-sun ensures the plants get the right hours of synthetic daylight regularly, animals too for that matter, keeps the water cycle running like an actual weather pattern and helps regulate the body clocks of everyone on board. It also provides a most exquisite sunset."

The sun was almost at the edge of the water now, its red-gold tones reflecting in the rippling waves. "It's beautiful," Sara murmured.

"Not as beautiful as you," Rip breathed in her ear, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

"Ohhh," Sara laughed, "as cheesy pick up lines go, that _has_ to be one of the oldest!"

"It's true though," he grinned.

They drifted into a contented silence, arms entangled, eyes fixed on the horizon. The sun sank lower, melting into the lake like a woman into the arms of her lover, vanishing below the horizon and casting the biosphere into an oddly sudden darkness. 

"Look up," whispered Rip. "Look up and wait."

Sara's eyes flitted upwards, fluttering a little as he kissed her again, pressing his lips to the outer edge of her ear and releasing her. She missed his presence immediately, but let him go. Behind her she heard the picnic basket being opened and various shufflings and odd noises. The hiss of a match. The clink of glass on glass. The sound of liquid being poured. A glass was pressed into her hand. The hand that had been holding it drifted around her again. Sara leant back into him. "This is perfect," she sighed. "Thank you."

"I said I wanted us to spend more time alone together," murmured Rip. "I didn't expect the inordinately exasperating adventures of the Atom to provide the opportunity, but I'll take any opportunity I can get."

"I'm glad you did."

"Can you see them yet?"

Sara frowned in the darkness. "See what? The stars?"

Rip brought his lips close to her ear again. "The constellations."

Sara blinked. She hadn't even realised what she was looking at. She had seen the stars peek out, one by one as the sky darkened, but she had been so focussed on wondering what was going on behind her she hadn't noticed the catch. The stars above her were not the same stars as those outside the station, even in holographic form. They were the stars of Earth. The constellations of Earth. There was the Big Dipper, the pole star, Orion, and all the rest she never could learn the names of. A shooting star flared above them.

"Wow," she breathed. By her ear, she felt Rip smile.

"Try the wine," he suggested. "It's one of Amelie's. So's most of the food, actually. She runs the farm after all."

Sara sipped her wine. It was rich and reminded her of autumn berries and chocolate. "It's good," she murmured, her stomach waking up at the thought of food. "Damn, I'm hungry!"

Rip laughed. "You should be: we haven't eaten all day! Come and sit down. Let me introduce you to real space station food."

Sara turned, guided by his arms, and drew in another sharp breath. A blanket was laid out with plates of sandwiches, fruit, salad, and the picnic basket holding the bottle of wine and a number of other boxes. At each corner of the blanket, candles flickered in little jars, hanging from stakes stuck into the ground.

"This is too much," murmured Sara.

"No, it isn't," countered Rip, leading her over to their waiting meal.

The food was good. Admittedly, Sara was hungry enough that anything would have tasted good at this point, but she was reasonably sure this spread would give Mick's culinary skills a run for their money. She lay back in Rip's arms, her head nestled against his shoulder, more at peace than either of them had any right to be while their crew was stranded light years away, she thought. But for the moment, there was nothing they could do, and she was perfectly happy to do nothing right here, with this man. She looked up at him. His eyes were shining in the candlelight and his lips were moving. The tiny scar on his cheek shone like a thread of spider silk as the soundless words formed. A scar her knife had made, aeons ago. She reached up and kissed it.

"What are you doing?" Sara murmured, pulling back and wondering when she had last seen him so content.

"I'm seeing how many of their names I can remember," he replied. "You can't, couldn't, really see them in twenty second century London. Too much light pollution."

"I never learned many constellations," she hinted, watching him, a smile playing on her lips. "Just a few to navigate by, if needs be."

"We were taught all of them," he mused, his eyes still flitting about the night sky overhead. "More than that, though: we had to learn the names of the stars too. And the clusters and nebulae. Anything that could be seen in the night sky. The sky we would one day travel through."

"And I bet you remember most of them. More than I ever will."

Finally, he took the hint and raised his free arm. "You know Orion?"

Sara nodded and snuggled closer, resting her head next to his and looking where he was pointing. "Yeah, I see it."

"The two brightest stars are at opposite corners. You see them?" Rip felt Sara nod again and continued. "The one at the top corner, that's Betelgeuse. The one at the diagonally opposite corner is Rigel. Now follow the line along the hem of Orion's tunic from Rigel to the other bottom corner and beyond. You see that really bright one. That's Sirius. Brightest star in the larger of Orion's hunting dogs, Canis Major, and in the whole night sky, or so it appears from Earth anyway. Now look up and further north a little, to Canis Minor. You see the brightest star there? That's Procyon. Above that are the two stars that represent the heads of the twins of Gemini, Castor and Pollux. The stars and the twins share the same name."

Sara listened and watched, nodding occasionally when her untrained eyes actually managed to spot the specific spark of light he was talking about. Mostly, eventually, she just listened, turning her head to watch him instead. He was much more interesting a study. She could lie here all night studying him, and never once get bored. The way his eyes lit up when he smiled. The way his voice changed when he was with her, and only her, like there was some special part of himself reserved just for her. The way the bags under his eyes had faded away, and the lines of weariness and pain disappeared, since they had been together. The way he let her see right into his soul, no matter what he thought she might see there, and the way he was never, ever, afraid of her. He had let her in to every aspect of himself, and she had loved everything she found there. She loved everything about him. Even when he was at his worst, she knew she would still love him.

Sara blinked. She loved him. She ran the thought through her mind again. She loved him. The corner of her lip curled up. She was utterly, completely, one hundred percent in love with him. With Rip Hunter. It dawned on her that he had stopped speaking and her eyes flitted up to his face to see him watching her.

"Did I lose you?" Rip smiled, trailing his hand up her back and into her hair. "With all the stars, I mean."

It was such a familiar movement, Sara's eyes fluttered closed without thinking. She felt Rip turn and draw her closer, resting his forehead against hers.

"Hey," he murmured softly. "What's going on in there?"

Sara let her hands slide up around his neck. "You won't ever lose me. Rip, I..."

Sara couldn't have pulled away from the kiss if she had wanted to. Every fibre of her being would have rebelled. She melted into him, like the sun into the lake, all thoughts of stars or words disintegrating into nothing.

XXXX

An hour passed, he judged, by the moving of the shadows on the wall opposite, before the feeling returned to his hands. With feeling came dexterity and the ability to finally untie the small purse by his poniard and shuffle into it the rings and chain that may serve as currency. The ruff he thrust into his jerkin where its uneven bulk might be hidden by his muddied cape. The dried mud had dulled the crimson somewhat, but together they drew nearer to the colour of dried blood.

William Sly pushed himself up from the huddled crouch he had adopted, hiding until his hands were well. He looked around, cautiously, listening for the sounds of voices or of feet and stretching his stiffened limbs. There was a noise, far off. It sounded like the roar of a distant crowd. What spectacle could empty the streets of their inhabitants? What could hold the attention of a city for an hour and more? And could it hold their attention away from him?

He needed food. He needed shelter. He needed better weapons and better clothes. More than anything, however, he needed information. Information would keep him safe. William Sly, or whoever he truly was, stalked through the muck of the alleyway toward the greater thoroughfare he could see at its end. He turned into a street bright with the light of the afternoon sun reflecting off cut stone and paved streets. There was indeed a crowd in the distance. He made his way towards them, aware of the lengthening form of his shadow heralding his approach. The crowd were not. Their eyes and cheers, or jeers perhaps, were fixed upon someone or something on a stage in their midst. Not an acting stage, Sly thought. No player's stage could attract such undivided attention. He edged around the crowd, noting their varying costumes and trying to catch a few words of what they were shouting. A basket hung temptingly unguarded from a woman's arm and he slipped past her, one loaf of bread richer. Other accoutrements found their way into his possession as he circled the gathering, never entering the press of bodies but always looking to see what had so enthralled them. Finally he saw it. For a second the crowd shifted such that he had a clear view of the pageant portrayed on the platform. Then the sunlight flashed upon a blade, and the crowd cheered.

Ah, thought Sly. Definitely time to change these clothes.

XXXX

They were giggling when they left the confines of the elevator, but their laughter grew hushed as they neared their room doors. Sara leant back against hers and pulled him to her, their mouths meeting with practised ease. She moved to open the door and he pulled away.

"You're not coming in?" Sara frowned, confusion clouding disappointment.

"And have our chaperone catch me there tomorrow morning?" Rip quipped, his fingers tangling with hers, unwilling to break contact yet. "The AI's here don't know our sleep patterns like Gideon does. They won't be able to wake us in time for me to sneak back. Besides: it's still traditional to end a first date on a goodnight kiss by the door, isn't it?"

"Since when did you or I start following the rules of tradition?" Sara pouted.

"Believe me, it's not just you I'm trying to convince here," Rip retorted, letting Sara drag his head down into another kiss.

"Then stop trying," Sara breathed between kisses.

"We'll probably get caught," Rip countered, kissing her again and pulling away.

"I don't care," said Sara, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. His eyes searched hers, the question in them too apparent to her not to be answered. "I'm sure about this. I don't care if we get caught. I don't want us to hide this any more. I..."

"Hide what exactly, Canary?" Amaya's voice snapped, making the lovers freeze, their eyes locked on one another. "Hide what, Captain?"

Rip was the first to move, straightening up and taking Sara's hands in his own. He kept his gaze on hers, reading her thoughts in her eyes. Defiant eyes. Determined. He nodded, she nodded back. He kissed her hands.

"We're together," he announced, still holding Sara's gaze. "An item, a couple, lovers: call it what you will, Amaya, but it won't change things. Sara and I are together now. And we have been for a while."

"I knew it!" Amaya hissed. "I knew there was something between you two! She clouds your judgement, Hunter! She has done ever since I first set foot on your ship and probably before then too. How many times have you had to defend her actions? Or have the rest of your crew simply accepted that there is one set of rules for them, another for your mistress?"

"Now hang on..." Rip began, but Sara cut him off.

"Since _when_? We haven't been together _that_ long," she shot back, turning on her personal nemesis and dropping Rip's hands. "We didn't even _like_ each other when you arrived! We were barely on _speaking_ terms! _You_ decided you didn't like _me_ the moment we met, so don't stand there and accuse _Rip_ of letting his emotions cloud _his_ judgement when it seems to me it's _you_ letting your _bile_ cloud _yours_!"

"Sara..." Rip warned, reaching out to her. She shook off his hand and advanced on Amaya.

"You're jealous!" Sara continued, her eyes narrowing. "You have looked down your nose at me at every opportunity, and why? Because you knew him first and now I've somehow stolen him from you? What? Did you develop feelings of your own for him back then? Did you think that maybe, now you were both single again, he might start feeling the same way about you? Well sorry, but life didn't work out that way and you don't get to blame me for that."

"I have held nothing but respect for our Captain," spat back Vixen, closing some of the distance between her door and Sara's. "How dare you! You! Who have done nothing but fight him and undermine him at every turn!"

"How dare _I_!" Sara raged, storming forward only to be swept up by Rip.

"Stop it, both of you!" Rip yelled, tightening his hold on Sara until he was sure she had calmed down. "Amaya, my relationship with Sara is none of your business. I don't know why you felt the need to spy on us this evening, or how you managed it..."

"I switched the soundproofing off and used my cat hearing," interjected Vixen, folding her arms and glaring at Sara.

"Regardless," continued Rip, "This is the situation, whether you like it or not: I am in love with Sara Lance. That is not going to change whether we are together or not, nor whether the crew know about us or not, so get used to it. And if the clandestine nature of our relationship bothers you that much, well, you heard Sara: she doesn't want us to hide anymore. We're telling everyone as soon as we get back. Now I suggest you drop the matter and get back in your room, because I swear: if you insult the woman I love one more time, I won't even _try_ to hold her back."

Amaya glowered at the couple, but backed off, turning at her door without another word and closing it behind her. Rip let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He stood there for a moment, letting his breathing and heart rate return to normal. Sara's hand slid up to his face and she twisted round to kiss his cheek.

"Hey there, lover, you can let me go now," she whispered. "And thank you for not letting me scratch her eyes out."

Rip let out a laugh and relaxed his arms. "I thought _that_ was Kendra's trick?"

Sara slid to the ground and turned to face him. "Just 'cause she's a half-hawk demigoddess doesn't give her a monopoly on eye scratching," she grinned. "Besides, if I'm honest, I probably wouldn't have stopped there anyway."

Rip tipped his head in acknowledgement of this and looked down at the woman standing in his arms. She raised an eyebrow at him. He frowned. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," Sara smiled wickedly. "I was just wondering."

"Wondering what?" Rip enquired, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Wondering who's got the better room here," she replied, all innocence and sly smiles. "Since, you know: we only need one now after all."

Rip let his hand slide down and into the back pocket of her jeans, removing the key card for her door. "You do, of course. You sure you're okay with telling everyone?"

"As soon as we get home," Sara nodded. She spotted the change in Rip's expression and frowned slightly. "What?"

"Home," he echoed. "You mean twenty sixteen."

Sara blinked and shook her head. "I mean home. With you. On the Waverider. Where we're going tomorrow, to tell all our friends that we're together. That we're..."

"The Waverider's your home now?" Rip cut in, watching her carefully.

"You're my home now," Sara replied, meeting his eyes with her steady blue gaze. "You. Wherever you call home. I call home."

He watched her, his eyes studying every line of her face, his fingers running up and down her arms like they didn't know where they were headed. Finally they tangled in her hair and he brought his mouth down to hers. Sara dragged him back to her door and retrieved her key card from his hand.

"My room it is then," she muttered, unlocking the door and pulling him through it.


	63. A Time to Tell

If the trip from the Waverider to the station had been blessed with awkward silence, the journey back was echoing with the jubilant smugness of the two lovers. Amaya didn't like it, but then Amaya could go scream at a star for all Sara cared. She was in love with Rip. He was in love with her. They were going back to their friends with both the news that they were together and the replacement fuel cell they had left to find. Sure, Mick might stomp and shout a bit, but what could he really do? Especially with the others there. Ray and Jesse would keep him calm. They would be happy for them. So would Jax and Martin, probably Matthew too. Amaya had made her feelings pretty clear, but that was no skin off Sara's nose: she had never got on with the woman on a personal level.

The jump ship dropped out of the timestream near the Waverider and Sara was surprised the first thing Rip did was not to hail their friends and announce their return, but to cloak the little shuttle and fly a sweeping arc around the Waverider itself. She watched him with a raised eyebrow and waited.

"I thought we'd fixed all the external issues?" Sara breezed when he turned the shuttle back into its usual approach sequence.

"Just checking," muttered Rip, uncloaking the jump ship. He tapped a few buttons that hailed the Waverider. "Better safe than sorry."

"And will you be 'just checking' everything when we dock?" Sara persisted, examining his distracted profile.

"What kind of captain would I be if I didn't?" Rip murmured, focussing on the opening docking doors ahead.

"So when exactly were you thinking of making our little 'announcement'?"

The corner of Rip's mouth curled. "There was I, thinking one massive snog in front of the crew might get the message across, and here's you wanting to make an 'announcement'. I thought you Americans were meant to be less formal than we Brits?"

"Well, I guess most of them would get the message," laughed Sara, looking back at the nearing ship. "Or _a_ message, at least. I just want them to be clear what we mean to each other. This isn't just about..."

"I know," nodded Rip. "We'll get everyone together first though. No point wasting time repeating ourselves."

"Okay," nodded Sara. She felt Rip's hand drop down and slid over hers, her fingers curling up to meet his and interweave themselves. Together. They were together. Whatever faced them from now onwards, they would face it together. That included the rest of the crew.

XXXX

Rags were easy to come by in a city, any city, if you didn't mind where they came from. He was walking through a powder keg, waiting for something to cause a spark. The more filthy and downtrodden he made himself appear, the less likely it was that such a spark would fall. Anonymity was his watchword here.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the irony of the situation. Here was he - a thief, a player and a pauper - dressed in the character of the one rich nobleman in Will's unending imagination who shared his name with the place he had just dropped into, at an apparent time when the great unwashed had taken it upon themselves to unburden every member of the nobility they could find of their oh, so gloriously coifed and capped heads. He had a few choice curses in mind, but they really didn't seem to begin to cover it! Will would have come up with something, no doubt!

He searched his mind. Even now it was becoming jumbled. Memories, dreams, identities: all sleeted through him in a cloud of information. Decapitation. That word stood out. That word he associated with the shining and bloody blade that had fallen so heavily upon the elegantly bewigged head of some well clad lady. He had wondered what she had done to deserve such a penalty, and then he had seen the small, weeping cluster of terrified nobles, resignedly waiting their turn behind her. She had been rich. That was all. He was no great champion of the rich, but he drew the line at killing them for it. He stole from them. He was a thief. He was not a murderer.

Something itched at the back of his brain. Something that felt like shards of ice. Big shards. Sharp shards.

So maybe he _was_ a murderer - maybe, long ago, in some wild, forgotten semblance of himself - but not of innocents. That he was sure of. That thought rang true with him. What else might he be? Who else? Who, when all was said and done, was he truly? William Sly? Guillaume de la Muraille? Herakhty, Horus of the Sunrise? Leonard Snart?

Well, whoever he was, he was in France now. In Paris, he was sure. The perfect Gothic symmetry of the Cathèdral Notre Dame rose high above him now, and something in his jumbled memory recognised it. Maybe Leonard was his true self, but Guillaume was a name more likely to fit in here, and one which, in either its French or English form, he was more used to hearing. If he were caught, challenged, and his name demanded of him, Guillaume would raise far fewer questions than Leonard. If he let go of Leonard, though, would this flood of memory disperse also? Will had told him as much, had argued with him over it: that once he had remembered enough to swear that the stories he bore with him were truth, and that he himself had warned Will that those memories would fade. And fade they had. Not now though. Now memories filled his mind like the clamour of a thousand voices, and he knew not which was which. To whom did the lock picks belong? Where had they come from? Were they even the same ones in every memory? Who had learned how to fight with a sword, and who with fists? Who had accrued the multitude of skills that adorned the thief? Who was Antoine? Odo? Merry? Raia? Mick? Lisa? Sara?

Sara...

Determination surged within him at the name. Three names. Mick, Lisa, Sara. Those were the names he was fighting for. Fighting to survive in this alien world. Fighting to get back to.

A door nearby hung almost imperceptibly ajar, catching the thief's eye. He stole inside on feet softer than a declawed cat. The door had failed to latch, presumably when its owner had hurried to glory in the gore. He sneered his silent contempt. This place would do. A short inspection told him it was empty, the tools of a tailor's trade lying dormant by the grimy window. There was a bedroom upstairs, empty but sufficiently furnished with clothes of the day, dull enough and worn enough to pass for a poor worker. He made his best attempt at emulating the fashion of the crowd and found a bag large enough to hold his actor's garb. Mayhap 'twould come in handy some time. He found a sturdier purse and filled it with what coin he could find, secreting the chain and rings in another purse he dropped into the bag. Returning downstairs he found cheese in the kitchen, and fruit, and doused his hunger in them before adding the remains to his bag. His magpie eye caught the needle and thread as he turned to leave. Yes, they too could prove useful. He selected the most useful of the set and fixed them, with various threads, in a roll of fabric. The roll went into the bag with a heavy, sharp set of shears and a small whetstone that kept them that way. Yes, that would do for now. Food. Clothing. Weapons and the means to sharpen them. Now all that was left was shelter. Sanctuary. And perhaps he had passed a place that might just offer that.

XXXX

"So do we pass inspection, Captain?" Ray grinned awkwardly, hurrying along beside Rip and the two women. Behind them, Jax, strolling along with his hands in his pockets, rolled his eyes.

"You've done an excellent job, Mister Jackson," called Rip, ignoring his newest sycophant. "Gideon please call everyone to the bridge, we have an announcement to make."

"Announcement? What announcement? Who's we?" Ray flapped, stopping his crab-wise gait so suddenly Amaya had to dodge around him.

"Spoilers!" Sara sing-songed back to him.

"Oh, I hate that word," sighed Ray, his shoulders dropping. He looked round to see Jax rise an eyebrow at him and wave a hand at the empty corridor. With a resigned look, Ray Palmer continued after the new arrivals. He could take a hint. Usually.

"All crew members have been invited to join us on the bridge, Captain," reported Gideon. "Also, you have a message waiting from Captain Johnson."

"Thank you, Gideon, I'll deal with that once we've settled things in the bridge," nodded Rip.

"The bridge appears quite settled, Captain," replied the AI, with only the mildest hint of confusion.

"Don't worry, Gideon," smirked Sara, by Rip's side. "They soon won't be."

"I swear you just enjoy making trouble, Miss Lance," grinned Rip, seeing the bridge doors appear around the curve of the corridor before them.

"I thought that was why you loved me, Captain," she joked, pressing a hand to the door's sensor.

"One reason of many, my dear Miss Lance," he laughed, waving her in before him. "One reason of many."

Following hot on their heels, Ray glanced at Jax. "Did he just..."

"Yes," Amaya snapped, before Jax could open his mouth to reply. "Come."

XXXX

"Mick, say something," said Sara, watching the pyromaniac as if she had just handed him a can of gasoline and a match.

Amidst the general smiles, applause and congratulations, Mick was standing stock still. His arms were folded against his chest. His back rested against one of the chairs. He had watched the proceedings, listened to the announcement, in pensive silence. Now it seemed everyone had some supercilious platitude to shout. It was almost as if they hadn't known.

"Mick?" Sara repeated, looking up at him. She had worked her way through the group, across the bridge, to him. "We good?"

Mick blinked. "Why wouldn't we be, Blondie? You and English ain't exactly news."

It was Sara's turn to blink. She added a frown for good measure.

"You don't think I noticed not having to carry your ass home from a bar every night we weren't on a mission?" Mick explained, looking down at her still confused expression. "Or actually getting an empty plate back from you at mealtimes? Or maybe you thought I wouldn't wonder what you were doing with your evenings when you managed to turn up for breakfast the next day looking like you'd actually slept? Maybe you thought I wouldn't notice when you actually started smiling again, right about the same time he did too? Or when you two started finishing each other's sentences; pairing up on missions; never too far away from each other; always one eye on the action, the other on him, and his on you? You don't think I spotted the panic, and the fear, in your eyes when you thought he was dead? Just for a second - ship stranded in space, half the crew unconscious, other half walking wounded - when I didn't pick him up right away, you feared the worst. Even though, if you'd thought about it for just a second more, you'd have seen the sense in it. Hell, if I could I'm damned sure you could. You feared the worst and you couldn't hide it. You couldn't hide the blood draining out of your face, the terror in your voice, the panic in your eyes. You don't scare easy, White Canary. You really think I ain't gonna notice that?"

Sara realised her mouth was open. She blinked and took a breath. "And you're okay with it? Me and Rip? Together?"

Mick shrugged. "Snart's dead. You were drowning. I couldn't reach you. Hunter could. I got no argument with that."

She nodded. There wasn't much else she could do. She looked around for something else to say, but what was there? "Thank you, Mick."

"Just make sure he knows: he screws this up, I'll take that damn coat of his and feed it to him."

A short laugh escaped Sara's lips. She slapped a hand down on Mick's good shoulder. "Not if I get there first."

A quick examination of the room told her that Rip had already extracted himself from the team and retreated to his office. The monitor there shone with the image of Luke's face. It looked worried. Sara hurried back across to the steps in time to meet the Captain coming the other way. He read the question in her eyes and nodded at the team.

"It seems that Captain Johnson, during the first tests of the new Oculus, spotted something worrying," Rip told the assembly. "He picked up indications of future technology, of an unknown kind, in the past and sent a captain under his command, one Captain Kate Hoban, to investigate. That captain failed to report back and has now been out of communication for a full day. I agreed that we would investigate ourselves and acquired the necessary details from Captain Johnson. What I did not tell him is that the time period is one of those where we know a fragment of the Worlogog to have been hidden. It is likely that our enemies have arrived there, looking to hunt down the piece only to find this to be one of those occasions where we beat them to it. We can only hope that Captain Hoban is alive and this gives us the opportunity to rescue her, however we should not be blind to the other possible opportunities available."

"Such as?" Jesse frowned.

"Such as sneak onto the pirates' ship and steal the rest of the Worlogog from under their noses," rumbled Mick. "What makes you think it'll be there?"

"The pieces are more powerful when joined together," clarified Rip with a wave of his hand. "If I were collecting them for the power, I'd want to join them up as soon as possible."

"If I had a fleet of ships at my disposal," countered Mick, "I wouldn't use one to pull off a series of heists one after the other. I'd send them all out after their own little jigsaw piece and have them bring it back home to mommy ASAP."

"And you'd trust them not to double cross you?"

"Fear is an excellent motivator."

Rip shrugged, eyes glancing down at the floor as his hands settled on his hips, then looking back up to the group. "Be that as it may, I don't see we have any other choice. If it's not there, fine, but if even just the one fragment is there, it's worth taking the risk."

"Not to mention the chance that Captain Hoban might still be alive," added Jesse, a slight frown creasing her brows.

"Indeed," nodded Rip, frowning at the holotable. "That also." He shook his head, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "No matter: right now we have a long journey through the timestream ahead of us and that's only after Doctor Palmer and Professor Stein have finished fixing my ship! Mister Jefferson, as before, I leave them in your capable hands. You seem to have been doing a sterling job so far; I trust you know what still needs doing. I believe I recall having a serious head injury recently and certain individuals telling me to rest. I intend to do so now and I suggest the rest of you do the same. Excuse me."

Coat tails flaring out behind him, Rip disappeared out of the room. Sara watched him go with narrowed eyes. Beside her, Mick also considered the retreating captain.

"Was it somethin' I said?"

"I dunno, Mick," mused the assassin, patting his shoulder as she left his side, "but I intend to find out."

XXXX

"What's up?" Sara demanded, hastening into Rip's quarters before he had the chance to close the door. He glowered at her and swept around the edge of a set of shelves to his bed, shrugging off the coat and dumping it over a chair before throwing himself down. Sara followed him, fixing her position at the end of the bed with folded arms. "Rip."

"Can I not just have a headache for once?" Captain Hunter demanded petulantly, hands appealing to the blank ceiling above him. "Matthew has been demanding I lie down from the moment I woke up and it looks like there's yet another battle on the horizon!"

"A battle you're not telling me everything about," nodded Sara, stepping closer. "Something which, by the way, everyone out there has already spotted."

"They didn't spot _us_."

"Mick did."

Silence reigned.

"Bollocks." The word was a sigh, barely audible had it not been for its treacherous sibilants.

"He's cool with it."

The hands that had been covering Rip's now knotted brow drifted downwards and an eyebrow was raised at Sara.

"He says he's cool with it," she amended with a shrug, "and he's apparently known for ages, so I believe him."

"Ages?" Rip's frown became even more incredulous.

"He may not be a genius mechanic or engineer or nuclear physicist or doctor, but Mick knows people," nodded Sara, edging up the side of the bed. "Especially people he cares about, and he cares about this crew."

"He cares about you," Rip corrected. "Ray and Jesse too. Maybe Martin and Jax in a way. Possibly even Matthew and Amaya!"

"He cares about this crew," she reiterated, her voice firmer, and sat down on the side of the bed, looking down at the captain. "You included."

"He's probably waiting for the right time to tie me down and threaten me with grievous bodily harm should I be so unwise as to incur your wrath!"

"Not exactly words I see Mick using," grinned Sara, dropping her hand to the bed on the far side of him and leaning on it. Besides, I'm perfectly capable of tying you up myself, as you well know. You also know how to get out of every knot the League of Assassins ever taught me: it was one of the first things I trained you in."

"Granted, but he doesn't know that!" Rip quipped, his eyes flicking innocently upwards. "You know I do believe I recall you having a concussion too: you should probably lie down," he began, the fingers of one hand tracing delicate lines up Sara's supporting wrist. "I'm sure I could shuffle over a bit..."

"No, Rip: you still haven't told me what you're holding back," she retorted, pushing herself up straight and folding her arms out of his reach. "I know there's something Rip, and so does Mick. What kind of crowd would you like to go back to, Rip? A suspicious one? Or the usual bunch of square pegs that just refuse to fit in those nice round holes? Tell me or tell them, Rip, but whatever it is: you're telling someone!"

"It's nothing!" Rip snapped, drawing back his hand and pressing the heels of both into his eyes.

"Liar," stated Sara, unfolding her arms again. She looked down at what little she could see of her lover's face. He had a headache, that much was true, but he was using it as camouflage to hide something more. What? "You got history with this captain?"

A short laugh exploded from Rip's half, hidden lips. "Who don't I have history with?"

"I mean history like with Luke," clarified Sara, in a tone that silently but distinctly added the phrase 'but you already knew that'. "This feels personal, not professional."

Rip groaned. Sara leant forward and pulled both his hands away from his face, pinning them gently either side of his head so she could look at him. Her look spoke volumes. Rip rolled his eyes and groaned again. "She was a friend of Miranda's," he sighed, tucking his hands behind his head when Sara let go. "At least she was until she found out about us - Miranda and I, I mean. It was her that told Declan where to find us."

"Ouch," winced Sara, "talk about stabbed in the back!" She caught a look from Rip. "Ah: and you're worried she's done it again."

"Precisely."

"Bollocks."

"Stop stealing my swearwords."

XXXX

Sanctuary. It was a word that had followed him through his travels, no matter what name he bore or whom he pretended to be. Sanctuary. The monks of Jerusalem had offered him sanctuary. Antoine had explained the concept to him once. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. He had been Guillaume then too. Remember. He had to remember. While everything was still there. Before it all faded into the mists of misplaced memory. He _had_ to remember.

Sanctuary. The idea that a church may offer its protection to a person should they need it. Protection from the law, up to a point, but much more importantly right now: protection from the mob. A place to shelter from the storms of whatever was going on around him. A place where, perhaps, he could pull off the act of innocent ignorance and claim the identity of a poor traveller, newly arrived. Where information, so desperately needed in the uncertain chaos fomenting in the city streets, could be gathered in safety and relative anonymity. There would be many churches in a city like this, he thought, but one rose high above the rest. If nothing else, it at least had plenty of places to hide! He slipped out of the tailor's hovel and looked back along the street. Above the ramshackle roofs of the city, two perfectly symmetrical towers rose. He shouldered his bag and started walking.

XXXX

"Mnf," grunted Sara, waking up with a start. The journey through the timestream would take hours, Gideon had informed them. Actually, she had been considerably more precise about exactly how many hours, but in the fuzzy fog of sleep, Sara couldn't remember more than it had been enough to get a decent night's sleep, if you were able. She had been. She'd been sound asleep and something had woken her. What? A muffled noise dragged her further out of her rest. The sound of sudden movement. She turned.

In the darkness beside her, Rip was curled into a ball under the covers. His knees were drawn right up to his chin, his forearms wrapped around his head, sharp elbows protecting his face. He was muttering something. One word. Over and over again.

"No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!" There were tears on the edges of those words. Tears he refused to let his captors see.

She reached out a hand to him, feeling him flinch at her touch. He didn't pull away though, and the muttering started to fade. That was the usual reaction. Somehow, even in his blackest nightmares, he always knew the hand that soothed him was friendly. She'd never asked if he knew it was hers. Whether the rescue that came to him in his dreams came from her or from Miranda, she didn't care. It always worked. That was what mattered. Sara edged closer, wrapping herself around him and nestling her head into his shoulder. "It okay, Rip. I'm here. You're safe. It's okay."

Slowly, as the soft words repeated over and over in his ear, the muffled muttering ceased. Then, and only then, did the tears start to fall.

XXXX

"You know: I am really starting to hate canyons," mused Ray Palmer looking down on the holographic map before them. High walls of red rock stretched out around the anomaly that was almost certainly Kate Hoban's cloaked ship. She certainly had chosen the best parking spot. Even Gideon had taken her time finding the hidden ship. The pirate ship, on the other hand, was anything but hidden. It wasn't even cloaked! It sat there, large as life and twice as strange, in the centre of a fork of the Grand Canyon, where a creek branched out down two great corridors of rock.

"These guys don't look like pirates," pointed out Jesse, indicating a group of men camped just a few short turns of the canyon from the visible ship.

"Lieutenant Joseph Ives," murmured Captain Hunter. "Our biggest clue and our smallest problem."

"Meaning?" Professor Stein prompted, looking up to watch his captain with interest. "If I remember my history, Ives rose quite high during the Civil War. If interference with his personal history is our smallest problem, I don't think we're going to like what our other problems are."

Rip waved a hand at the cloaked ship. "Captain Hoban's vessel is completely powered down. No signs of life whatsoever. Gideon can't gain access to its controls or communicate with its AI."

"If there's no power, what's cloaking it?" Ray cut in, his brows creasing.

"Unknown," nodded Rip, "but if it is a device used by Captain Hoban herself, she has very deliberately hidden her ship in a way that suggests she does not expect to return for quite some time."

"And if it's a gadget the bad guys set up?" Jax prodded.

"Then why not use it on their own?" Jesse shrugged. "We know they can cloak, even without using something like that. Why should they hide an enemy's ship and not their own?"

Rip and Sara exchanged a look.

"You think this is a trap," deduced Amaya, watching them. "You believe this Captain Hoban has switched sides."

Rip set his hands on his hips and dropped his head in a nod. "It's a distinct possibility."

"Then why are we goin' after her?" Mick murmured, staring down at the map. "Let's just zap this guy and his chums with your memory thingy and be done with it."

"Because a possibility, however distinct, is not a certainty," replied the captain, returning his gaze to the hologram. "And because, even if she has defected, we still have to retrieve Captain Hoban, prevent any damaging change to Lieutenant Ives' personal history..."

"And steal the Worlogog fragments if we can," finished Sara. "We have two missions: the double-pronged one Luke sent us on and our own."

"Mister Rory, I believe we have a heist to pull off here," began Rip, looking up at the arsonist opposite. "That is your area of expertise. I'm placing Doctor Palmer and Miss Wells at your disposal and in your care. Find the fragments if you can and get them back here. If you happen to come across Captain Hoban in the course of your mission, get her back here and in the brig also. Professor Stein, Mister Jefferson: I need you, and Gideon to work out how the devil to hide a ship that doesn't want to be cloaked."

"It'd be easier if we could get a look at whatever device they're using on Captain Hoban's ship," nodded Martin.

"Then that is our first port of call. Gideon can set us down here." Rip pointed at an undulating curve on the map hidden from the view of both ships. "We'll still have to be careful. If it is a trap, there will undoubtedly be somebody watching Captain Hoban's ship to see we show up."

"So we show up," shrugged Sara. "That draws them out just as much. We fight. We kick their asses. We take their toys. We get back here. We party. Simple."

"When is anything we do _ever_ simple?" Jax quipped.

"My thoughts exactly, Mister Jefferson," agreed Rip, eyebrows flashing upwards. "As plans go, though, we don't have many options. Captain Hoban's ship is so placed that we can only get near the hatch from one direction. Miss Lance and I will take the obvious approach and draw out our waiting watchers. Madame Jiwe and yourselves, as Firestorm, will take up positions here and here on top of the canyon, either side of the meander the ship is in. When the guards do show themselves, hopefully they will not be expecting an assault from above. Tyler, in the event that our friends have indeed found some way of disabling and cloaking a time ship, possibly from a distance, it may not be wise for you to be in the vicinity of such a device. It may interfere with your own systems. I want you to stay here, on hand to receive casualties if there are any and in reserve should we need to chance a swift extraction."

"Understood, Captain," replied the android. "The medical bay is ready, should we need it. I must remind you, however, that you yourself are still not fully recovered from your recent injuries, and I believe it unwise to put yourself further in harm's way."

"I promise I'll be careful, Matthew," conceded Rip, "but I'm not sitting this out. Gideon: take us in!"


	64. A Time to Die

Paris was a powder keg. That was how Guillaume understood it. The priest, who had introduced himself as Pere Etienne, had been shocked to find anyone who could have been ignorant of the goings on in the great city for all of the past three years, but seemed to accept the excuses of bare snippets of wild rumour reaching the poor, itinerant tailor just newly arrived to the sprawling mass of bubbling terror and blood-soaked revolution that was the foremost city of France. He had welcomed the wanderer to his table, housed him in the warm, soft straw of his stable, and the next morning questioned him keenly on his position of faith. The last of these had piqued Guillaume's interest, but he was saved from attempting any kind of counter-interrogation by the priest's reaction to his answers. Working on the assumption that it was best to play the penitent pilgrim, drawing on the jumbled memories of Jerusalem and his arrival in London, Guillaume had confirmed to the obviously Christian priest his not-so-obvious Christian beliefs. The black-frocked cleric had greeted him as a brother long absent after that, drawing him into the great cathedral and showing him the wonders he protected.

"These relics are precious to our faith, my son," he urged, leading Guillaume to the shining gold reliquaries hidden within the winding corridors of the cathedral. "They were taken in haste from the Holy Chapel to protect them from the rage of the revolutionaries. The sans-culottes would take these and brandish them without sacrament or ceremony in their faithless galleries, reduced to no more than a piece of art. Beautiful, but wholly human in their history. I remain here, guarding them and this great sanctuary, in despite of their attempts to steal all that the Church owns and deny us our right to practice our faith. I alone remain, and I cannot hide these treasures away by myself. I have wracked my brains, I have prayed for guidance, I have prayed for a miracle. Now, here are you. Perhaps you are the miracle I have prayed for. The citizens of Paris are slaking their thirst for revolution in the blood of the many prisoners taken and already held at the fall of the throne. Soon enough will come the time when they turn their reddened hands towards the peaceful brethren of the church. I fear it every day! Help me! You cannot stay here. To come here, a true Christian as you are, was a mistake. Take your leave from this accursed city and carry these treasures with you. To stay would be death. Should I try to leave with these relics, I would be stopped and my precious charges lost. I do not fear to die for my faith, but I would not have my death mean the loss of these."

Guillaume surveyed the glistening collection. "Are all these taken from the Holy Chapel?"

"Not all, my son," replied Etienne, shaking his head mournfully. "Alas, they are all that remains of all the relics of Paris! Many were lost to the revolutionaries before we could get to them, and many, so many, of my brother priests have joined the nobles in their walk to the guillotine these last few days for their bold refusal to hand them over, or give up their faith. It is a terrible invention! They must be taken far from here! As many as you can! To Cluny, if it still holds true, or beyond. Avignon cannot be trusted. It is almost a year now since it was brought back under French rule by riot and force. Spain, perhaps, or Rome, if you dare. There can be no safer harbour for these treasures of the Church than in Rome with our Holy Father. There is war to the north, and to the west there is only the British. I would not trust them with the sale of a cat! Go south or east, or help me devise some way of hiding these treasures here, where unfaithful, sacrilegious hands cannot parade the blessed relics of Our Lord and his Holy Mother like the innocent, desecrated spoils of war!"

"Pere Etienne," breathed Guillaume, taking in the array of reliquaries great and small, thinking back to everything he had learned about sanctuaries in Egypt and Jerusalem, and pondering what he had learned about building in Southwark, "I cannot carry all this wherever I go. Perhaps, though, I may be able to help you do something about hiding them."

XXXX

The explosion ricocheted off the canyon walls, tearing through the outer rock face and sending showers of stones down on the team. Most of the rocks were small. Some weren't. Nobody could say they hadn't expected it, of course. A ten foot tall, flashing neon sign spelling out the immortal phrase "it's a trap" wouldn't have made things any more obvious. Just knowing they were expected, however, made it easier to plan for the assault that would undoubtedly occur. Rip had taken the left flank of the curving canyon walls, she had taken the right, aware of the floating form of Firestorm high above her while Vixen's eagle eyes watched over the Captain. There had been no response from the ship, or anyone hidden within the veil of its hopefully unique cloaking technology, until an invisible wall stopped the progress of the advancing pair. Rip, his pistol held out before him, had hit it first. The glance he had thrown her had stopped her dead in her tracks, a cautious hand rising to test the air before her with the tip of a baton. From there on they had traced the edge of the cloaking field - she with her baton, he with his hand, pistol ready in the other should he need it - stepping slowly closer to one another, and to the hypothesised location of the hatch. They stopped a scant foot from each other and shared a ponderous yet voluble look. Something under Rip's hand shifted.

Then all hell broke loose.

So did half the canyon.

Support from high above isn't much help when lasers are forcing you back into a corner, cutting swathes out of the rock wall over your head, and filling the air above with a cloud of dust, rocks, and the occasional flying boulder.

Sara felt a familiar weight cannon into her side, its momentum carrying them both to the ground. They rolled to stop in a ditch, once the bed of a long since dried up stream. Her head was cradled in his hand, turned protectively in to his shoulder. His body covered hers, shielding her from the rock fall. Emotions warred within Sara. Shock was itself divided between the suddenness of the explosion and the realisation that Rip had very likely just saved her life. Relief was busy checking that they were both still breathing. Annoyance and irritation, that she had needed saving, were taking a back seat to the screaming rage born of fear that he had put himself in harm's way for her; and that was dragging up so many other feelings, feelings she could neither qualify nor quantify, that gratitude had gone and got some popcorn to watch the show.

The noise of dust settling swirled into cessation. Rip lifted his head slightly, aware that his hold on Sara was comfortable for neither of them. "Are you okay?"

"What the hell, Rip!" Sara half groaned, half growled back at him.

"You're welcome," he mumbled. Then he passed out.

XXXX

From the rooftop, shrouded by the protruding window, he looked down on the marketplace. The tumbrel rolled its forlorn way through the jeering masses, the once bright clothes of its occupants muddied and torn. Five today. All dragged from the two-wheeled cart by overzealous guards, spat at and abused by the waiting crowd, and lined up, shaking and wailing, on the wooden platform. A highborn gentleman, two ladies, a Swiss guard and a priest, his black robes torn at the shoulder and knee. Odd that. So many of the clergy had been despatched long ago, in the September massacres and before, that he was surprised there were any left. He was surprised there was anyone left, really. Where had they all been hiding, that the revolutionaries still kept finding them? Surely, at the rate he had seen heads fly in the time he had been here, there was no royal, noble or religious blood left in Paris?

He glanced up, his eye caught by a movement on the eastern side of the square to his left. He had been right then. Today was the day. The beginning of the legend. High above, where the executioner could not see, and where the crowd had no interest in looking, a figure leant out from behind a gabled window, crossbow in hand, and fired a bolt across the rooftops. He saw the rope uncoil, carried by the barbed bolt now lodged in the plaster work of the opposing roof. He noted the knot halfway when the rope was pulled taut across the gap, and the second rope leading back from it to the bowman. He watched as the dark-cloaked figure emerged from the parapet, the second rope wrapped around one hand, reloaded crossbow ready in the other. There was just time to register the sword buckled at the shadowy figure's belt and then he was gone, dropping down on a smooth arc to the raised platform below. The crossbow fired and fell, useless for more than one shot. A guard fell, the bolt through his neck. Other guards turned to the rapidly approaching assailant. A knife flashed, then another, and two more guards dropped to the ground gurgling. The cloaked man reached the nadir of his arc, his free arm wrapping round the beaten cleric, and the two swung upwards and away, landing on a balcony one storey below the original crossbow bolt and its rope. The door opened easily, unlocked ahead of time, and the two disappeared within.

Shocked silence exploded into uproar in the square below. There was still prisoners there. There was no flower left to give the fleeting shadow his sobriquet. The executioner still remained alive. And yet it was a beginning. The beginning of a legend that would become a myth and a fairy tale, painted and embellished by a writer's hand even as history whitewashed over the reality. The man on the roof looked at the open balcony door. The priest and his rescuer were long gone, their escape route planned with expert precision. He, on the other hand, would soon be spotted by the increasingly upturned faces of the mob. He turned away, his long brown coat swinging out behind him like a cape. Even as he stepped back into his jump ship, he heard the mob begin to shout.

XXXX

When Rip next opened his eyes, his first instinct was to shut them again. "Gideon, lights down," he managed. His throat was dry. The lights dimmed, answering his assumption that they had made it back to the Waverider's medical bay. A cup was pressed to his lips. He took it and drank, slowly. The gritty sensation in his throat cleared. He tried his voice again. "Well?"

"I can confirm that everyone is safely aboard the ship, Captain Hunter," answered Gideon's prim tones. "Captain Hoban was safely retreived and is currently ensconced in the brig, however we were unable to obtain any Worlogog fragments. Other than your own, the only injuries sustained were by Doctor Palmer and Mister Rory. Mister Rory received a laser burn to his left shoulder caused by an accidental discharge from Doctor Palmer's suit. Doctor Palmer received a black eye caused by a deliberate impact with Mister Rory's fist."

"Oh, joy!" Rip groaned, dropping his head back on the bed. "I can't even pass out in peace!"

The remnants of the cup of water were unceremoniously dumped on the Captain's head. He sat up, blinking and sputtering. Immediately his head swam and his stomach dropped. He gripped the sides of the bed, staring fixedly at his feet until the room stopped spinning. "That was uncalled for!"

Silence.

Oh good, now he knew he was in trouble. He risked turning to sit on the edge of the bed. If he moved slowly, the walls seemed to keep pace with him well enough. He looked up. Sara was standing two feet away from him, arms folded, head tilted slightly to one side, mouth set in a thin, tight line. Oh yes, she was angry. Definitely angry. This should be fun. Or not!

"You would have died," he began, watching the cold blue gaze bore into him.

"You don't know that," she snapped, with a glare that could cut glass.

"Gideon?" Rip decided not to risk a glance upwards. Taking one's eyes off an angry assassin was never a good idea.

"According to my data," chirped the AI, "had Miss Lance remained in her position there is a seventy percent likelihood that she would have received a fatal blow from falling debris."

He raised his eyebrows hopefully. It didn't work.

"I make that an almost one in three chance I wouldn't have," she growled, never taking her eyes off him for a minute. "Gideon, inform Captain Hunter of his condition when he was brought in here."

"My initial scans discovered one dislocated shoulder, two head injuries and internal bleeding in the abdominal cavity," trilled Gideon obediently. "Mister Tyler and Mister Rory returned the shoulder to its place. Doctor Palmer cauterised the ruptured blood vessels from inside. I maintained a safe level of sedation until the danger of swelling or blood clots in the brain tissue had passed."

"Tell him what happened to make Ray risk using the suit inside someone again," ordered Sara.

"Approximately three minutes after returning to the ship, following the replacement of his dislocated shoulder joint, Captain Hunter went into hypovolaemic shock, swiftly followed by cardiac arrest. Mister Rory and Mister Tyler were able to regain a heartbeat and restabilise the Captain for a few minutes, but he arrested again as the surgery equipment was being prepared. Doctor Palmer, who was still wearing his suit, instructed Mister Rory to perform chest compressions until he returned, then had Professor Stein inject his miniaturised form as close to the damaged vessels as possible. He cauterised the wounds, preventing any further blood loss, and returned. We were then able to stabilise the Captain fully."

"You did die, Rip," Sara seethed. "Right in front of me. You died twice!"

"Sara..." he cut in softly, but she ignored him.

"No! You do _not_ get to make decisions like that! You do not get to choose who lives and who dies," she cried, underlining her point with a sharp wave of her hand. "If we have learnt anything over this past year it is _that_! I never wanted you to sacrifice yourself for me! I never asked you to risk everything for me!"

"You shouldn't have to ask," he shot back. "I'm your captain. We're a team. We're friends. We're..."

"If you had died, do you have any idea what that would have done to me?" Sara asked sharply, stepping into his personal space. They were nose to nose.

"If you had died, do you have any idea what that would have done to me?" Rip shot back, his voice rising to match hers. "If I could have saved you and I didn't?"

"How many times, Rip? How many times do I have to watch the man I love die just to save me?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath, then realised it was his own. When he hadn't replied, she had turned away. He pushed himself off the bed and stretched out a hand, pulling her round towards him and crashing his lips to hers in one movement. Almost immediately, one hand reached up to his neck, keeping him close as he deepened the kiss, while the other flattened on his chest, over his heart. He let his free hand trace a trail down her spine to wrap around her waist next to his other arm. The hand on his chest slid up to tangle in his hair.

When they parted, breathless and flushed, she didn't pull away. Eyes closed, she leant into the pressure of his forehead on hers. He broke away to press a small, chaste kiss on the tip of her nose, the spot between her eyebrows, the top of her forehead. She smiled, running her fingertips up and down the nape of his neck. Peace returned again.

"What was that for?" Sara murmured, nestling her head into the crook of his neck.

"You've never said it before," breathed Rip. "I know, it's silly, but you never have, not outright. And the way we started... I know you care for me, it's just... I've said it so often and you never have. I just... I... I wasn't sure."

Sara's brow wrinkled. "Never said what?"

When Rip spoke, it was in a whisper as soft as down. "That you love me."

Sara raised her head and captured his eyes with her own. "I love you," she said, clearly, unequivocally, confidently. "Please don't ever do that again."

"I'm not promising anything," smiled Rip, running his fingers through her tangled hair. "I love you too much to stand back and watch you die. I would do anything for you, Sara, but I can't promise that."

He kissed her forehead and rested his own there, his eyes closing, his arms wrapping round her, holding her closer. She tightened her hold on him in return, her heartbeat slowing as she relaxed, content in his arms. He could stay here forever, he thought, just holding her. He was wrong.

Rip backed away with a yell, one hand to his head, excruciating pain exploding behind his eyes. He felt his knees hit the floor. He felt Sara's hands on his arms. Through the fog of white-hot agony, he thought he heard Sara screaming at Gideon to do something. Suddenly, as suddenly as it had appeared, the pain vanished. He sat back against the supports of the bed, gulping in air. When he looked at her, he was sure he saw tears in Sara's eyes. He closed his eyes, focussing on the images the pain had left behind. They wouldn't be the last tears he saw there.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," he gasped, still reeling, wrapping his fingers around hers. "It's okay, it's not the injuries."

"Then what?" Sara sobbed, interlacing her fingers with his and edging closer.

"Kiss me again," he entreated, letting his head fall round to meet hers, his eyes drinking in every aspect of her face. "Just once more, then I'll tell you."

A paralysing fear encased Sara's heart in a vicelike grip. "Don't you dare die on me _now_!"

"I'm not dying, Sara," he chided. "I promise. Please."

"Then why are you making this feel like it might be the last time?"

"Because it might be," he reached out to caress her cheek, holding her gaze, unflinching, as she searched his eyes. "That's going to be up to you. You might not think quite so much of kissing me once you hear what I have to say. So please, before I have to say it, let me have this."

Her lips met his gently, still afraid the episode had been partly her fault. He returned the kiss, slow and lingering, committing every detail to memory. This time, when they moved apart, her breathing was so shallow he could barely make it out.

"Tell me," she demanded, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. "What caused that pain?"

"I'm remembering things," he smiled.

The smile did nothing to lessen Sara's fears. "What?"

"Things I had no memory of before," he clarified. "Something in my personal timeline has changed, creating a memory so powerful, so fixed in time, that it reached us here, in the temporal zone. Reached me. Rearranged cells in my brain to make way for it."

"People mess with timelines all the time, ourselves included," Sara stated flatly, still not buying it. "This does not usually happen."

"Not usually, no," he nodded in his usually offhand way, "but those memories are not usually particularly important, and we're not usually a part of the timeline when they're made. These ones are. They're so important I didn't even have to be _in_ a timeline for them to form."

Sara caught his eye and set her jaw. "Tell me."

"It appears we may have been mistaken," said Rip, dragging out the time before he would have to cut this new wound in her heart, "when we assumed the destruction of the Oculus also meant the destruction of Leonard Snart."

The constant hum of electronics grew louder in the sudden vacuum of sound.

"He's alive?" Sara's voice shook. "How?"

"I'm not sure," Rip shook his head, "but I believe the explosion that destroyed the Oculus may have thrown Mister Snart into the wellspring on a cellular level. I think he's jumping through time. On his own. I have a vivid memory of watching a man disappear in eighteenth century France. I later saw the _same_ man in the late sixteenth century, England. More importantly, I remember seeing him a third time, in the Stone Age, and he most definitely was _not_ from that era! He even told me he wasn't dead, and that he had, at some point, saved my life. All our lives. Now, of course, I know the man was Leonard Snart, but then I didn't. Our timelines crossed before I met you all."

"But if..." Sara hesitated, confusion knotting her brows. "If this all happened before you met us...?"

"That's the change," Rip explained, patiently. "For Mister Snart, this all happened after... after he left us. Even though he met my younger self, it didn't affect my older self until he did so. It's complicated. Memories are. They're so fragile. Transient. It's not like leaving a note inside a helmet like Kendra did. The helmet itself doesn't change and rewire itself throughout the intervening years. It merely is, and as a side effect, sometimes, it is moved through space when the change occurs. Memories. They're merely the product of billions of replicating and self-renewing nerve cells tangling together in the recesses of the brain. They're not even all stored in one place in the brain. When you consider how much of your life you have forgotten, how many of those scattered accumulations of biological wiring have vanished forever, it's a miracle I remembered him at all."


	65. A Time to Dare

"Hey, Mick?"

The ex-con's head didn't move. He didn't look up from the gun he was methodically cleaning and checking. He made no sign of surprise at Sara's entrance. He had heard her approach, which meant she had wanted him to know she was on her way. The only surprise in Mick's mind just now was that she seemed to be alone.

"You and Romeo still fighting over today's little stunt or is he not quite up to giving lectures on not punching co-workers yet?" Mick barked out, a wry turn twisting the cadence of the latter half of his question.

"Gideon's running a few more tests, but he's gonna be fine we think," nodded Sara, leaning against the stacked boxes opposite the pyro, her arms folded. There was a bittersweet sense of deja vu in the movement, so similar to one made aeons ago opposite someone so recently recalled to her mind. Even the knowledge of the news she carried was turning every move she made into a reincarnation of a memory. "I need to tell you something."

Mick looked up, his eyes narrowing and flicking over her slight form. "You pregnant?"

"What!" Sara's eyebrows made a bid for her hairline. "No, Mick! Where'd that come from?"

"Sounds serious," he shrugged, looking back down to the gun and returning to his work. "You looked serious. Figured it must be somethin' important. That means it's either rugrats or wedding bells. Getting hitched then?"

"Wanna third guess?" Sara quipped, her tone decidedly sharper than she had planned for this moment. This was not going according to plan. On reflection, she thought, when did it ever?

"Somebody's dyin'," supplied Mick a wavering upturn of his voice marking the words a polite enquiry rather than a definitive answer.

"Somebody's alive," replied the assassin, every word measured and calm. She let the silence broaden, watching the mental head count work its way through Mick's brain.

"Somebody who died?"

Sara could almost read the thoughts crossing Mick's face. "Somebody we thought was dead. We were wrong."

Mick's hands had grown still, no longer cleaning the gun so much as caressing it absentmindedly. He looked up into Sara's eyes with an icy calm she had rarely seen there. It was almost as if he knew what she was going to say when he asked, but he still asked the question anyway. He asked in one, single, solitary, lonely word. "Who?"

"Leonard."

XXXX

"You were right, mon Pere, we must leave this place," decided Guillaume, bolting the thick wooden door of the priest's house and sweeping off the long, dark cloak. "Go, find what food will last the journey. I must put my mind to the means of our escape."

"Your mind seems well able to produce such means, Guillaume," retorted Pere Etienne, eyeing him with far more care than he ever had before. "Indeed, you possess skills I would not think to find in a humble tailor."

"I have been many things before I ever thought of being a tailor," answered the traveller, truthfully for once. "With them they have brought me many skills. Skills I needs must use if we are to leave this accursed place alive."

Etienne stood his ground, unwilling to leave his rescuer's side without more knowledge. "Where would you have us go? There are barricades on every gate, all guarded. No person may pass without inspection. You might be allowed to leave: your face is not yet known to these murderers. Mine is. Also, there are the relics to protect. I cannot leave them. Nor can I leave my brothers and sisters in the clutches of these bloodthirsty madmen."

"I will find a way to get you out unrecognised," countered Guillaume, straightening from the door he had been leaning against. "The relics are safe where we have hidden them, and our presence here only suggests to the rebels that there is something within requiring our protection. As for your 'brothers and sisters', you cannot mean those unfortunates in that prison, surely? What help could we be to them?"

"Little, perhaps," allowed Etienne, holding up two hands to placate his friend, "but to those not yet imprisoned? I had time enough alone with those few who travelled with me to Madame Guillotine this day. They told me how they were in hiding and how they were caught, betrayed by a once faithful servant. They also told me that many other nobles, rudely called aristos by our captors, are in hiding in the city, unable to leave and unwilling to give in to Madame Guillotine. They were to join them, but had been interrupted in their flight and taken prisoner. My son, if we could but reach them, if we could throw in our lot with theirs, perhaps your incredible audacity could find a way to save us all."

Guillaume looked the priest up and down. He was young. Younger than Guillaume himself, most likely. He had seen nothing of the world outside the city walls and probably, Guillaume pondered, felt he had yet to make his mark upon the world. The thief sighed. Here was a challenge he had not foreseen. To steal away the aristocracy of France, right under the very noses of their fanatical, numerous and ferociously well-armed guards. He didn't exactly have a death wish, but, for some reason, the prospect of pulling off a heist this big made his fingers itch.

XXXX

"How is that possible?" Ray breathed, features twisting in horrified wonder. "You said you saw me die. He took my place. He should be dead. I mean, I'm glad he's not, but how?"

"I saw you disintegrate," shrugged Rip, shaking his head. "I assumed that meant you died. It seems I was wrong."

"Yeah, but how?" Ray frowned, agog.

"Wrong question," rumbled Mick, his face as emotionless as a graven image, staring at the floor. "I don't care how he's alive. I just wanna know how we get him home."

"I'm afraid he was most decidedly certain that where I left him in France was home," sighed Rip, frowning under the burden of bad news. "I don't know how long he had been there, but I knew him for some considerable time then and not once did he say or do anything that suggests to me he had any idea he was not in his right time. Indeed, the only time he seemed to have knowledge of his predicament was when I met him the third time in the Stone Age."

"So how do we get him out of there?" Mick persisted.

"Easy," shrugged Jesse, unfolding one graceful hand and forearm to conduct her explanation. "We know where he was and when he was, and when he disappeared. Can't we just jump to a few hours before you met him there and pick him up?"

"Saints preserve me from genius, overconfident speedsters and their inane and utter disregard for the fragility of the timeline!" Rip exhorted, appealing upward, much to the speedster in question's chagrin. "He's already changed time once! The only reason we know he's still alive is because of how he's changed time. _My_ time! If we pluck him out of the timeline before he's even met me, how am I supposed to remember him? We would create a paradox! Paradoxes are _never_ good! Just because the speed force wraps you lot up in your little, protective, make-as-many-remnants-as-you-like-until-we-decide-otherwise, autocratic, get-out-of-jail-free, time-travel bubble, does not mean we can break the same rules! Believe me, Miss Wells: even if I was idiot enough to park us in South Africa and allow you to go racing back there on your own, assuming we got close enough temporally for you to get that far via the speed force, even then would you cause an insurmountable paradox by removing Mister Snart from the timeline before I meet him for the first time, and fix him in my memory by what happened after that, in the middle of the French revolution!"

"But your memory of him in that time ends with his disappearance from that era," put in Professor Stein, fingers steepled before him. "How are we to know where he may have jumped to next?"

"We find him the same way I did, first and last times anyway," nodded Rip, waving a hand at the holotable. "We look for the pattern. We find what's out of place, what shouldn't be there. We trace back the ripples in time."

"Sounds like the kind of thing a working oculus might help with," murmured Jax, staring at the holotable in thought. "Maybe we should head back to the Vanishing Point: help get that thing running again."

"While I admit you might be right, Mister Jackson," conceded Rip, holding up his hands in a way that told everyone who knew him he did nothing of the sort, "I would prefer to use Gideon's resources only for the moment. I do, however, appreciate the irony that we may have to resort to using the very thing that had left Mister Snart _in_ this situation to attempt to get him _out_ of it."

Sara's eyes narrowed on him. "Why?"

Rip's head bobbed from side to side, searching for the right words. "I yet have to speak to our 'colleague' in the brig, but the mere fact you put her there suggest you do not trust her, am I right?"

Sara condescended to nod.

"And we all know that Captain Hoban was working on the very project Mister Jackson is so keep to utilise?"

Another nod.

"Then I suggest we see what information we can get from our new guest about her mission, contacts and information gathered before we try using something she has possibly hijacked to find someone she and her friends do not as yet know about. Professor, Miss Wells, Doctor Palmer, Mister Tyler," began Captain Hunter, switching into full command mode, "please put your excellent and extensive research abilities to the test to find Mister Snart. Mister Jackson, please make sure they do not blow us up this time. Miss Lance, Mister Rory, Madame Jiwe, please see what intelligence you can gather from our spy. I will join you shortly."

"And you will be?" Amaya gently queried.

"Working out how much of my memory of Captain Hoban now actually took place, if any!"

Rip swung round into his office, a blunt hint that the briefing was over. Behind him he heard feet scatter in various directions. One set followed him up the stairs. He didn't even have to turn and look.

"You don't think we should maybe warn Luke there's a spy in the ranks?" Sara suggested, folding her arms and leaning on the door frame.

Rip shrugged away the suggestion. "Let's talk to her first, then pass on the warning when we know more."

Behind him, Rip heard Sara move further into the room. "You know, I'm sure we had a more recent conversation somewhere in the past six months about keeping secrets from people we trust. I know the first one made an impact."

"Hmm, on my jaw!" Rip joked, leaning both elbows on his desk and resting his head in his hands. He felt two slim hands slide over his shoulders and lips press a kiss against the top of his head. They felt like a knife twisting in his guts. "Don't," he breathed. "Please don't."

The pressure disappeared from his shoulders immediately, but the fingers lingered. "Sorry, head injury, my bad."

"No, it's not that," admitted the captain, eyes closed against a truth he did not want to see.

The touch of the fingers lessened to the weight of a hair. "Then what?"

"I just... I need to focus, Sara," sighed Rip, not daring to turn and face her. "I need some space."

"You're in the right ship for it then," she laughed, but there was no humour in that laugh.

She knew, he thought. She always could read him, even without seeing his face. "Please, Sara," he murmured, all energy and colour drained from his voice. "I'm sorry. I need some time to think."

The feather-light fingers receded. Footsteps faded to the doorway and paused.

"I love you, Rip."

Then she was gone.

XXXX

"Show me again the map of the city," demanded Guillaume, peering down at the other two maps before him.

"It is of no use," complained Etienne, passing it over anyway. "All gates are guarded and the citizens will not let us pass, not without inspection."

"Then we must either contrive to pass such an inspection or use another way," explained Guillaume, waving the rolled map impatiently. "And there is always another way."

"If there is, I have not found it," retorted the priest, "and, on my honour, my son, I have looked!"

"You have studied each of these maps," purred Guillaume, waving a hand that encompassed those both open and rolled before him.

"Truly, I have."

"Yet you have seen no means of circumventing the city walls," he continued.

"Truly, I have not."

"And, pray tell, how often have you compared these maps with each other?"

"My son?"

Guillaume unrolled the map of Paris, weighting it down at the corners with pepper and salt pots and a scattering of cutlery. He overlaid a sheet of fine paper, thin enough to see the lines of the map through, and sketched out the shape of the city walls, the Seine, the main roads. When his copy of the map was complete, he removed the paper and the weights, rolling up the city map and passing it back to the priest. Taking up another of the maps on the table, Guillaume unrolled, weighted down, and repeated the copying procedure, this time in a different colour of ink. Again and again this silent work was completed, always on the same copy sheet, and always with a different colour of ink, borrowed from the stores of those used to illuminate copies of ancient manuscripts. When at last he was done, Guillaume held up the multicoloured sheet for the young priest to examine. Etienne's eyes squinted at the complex web of coloured lines, then his jaw dropped.

"Mon Dieu!" Pere Etienne uttered in an astonished whisper. "But they will be guarded surely!"

"Why?" Guillaume drawled lazily. "What self-respecting aristo would willingly soil their garments and their pride in such a lowly pursuit? These people are fanatics. Their view of everything is skewed to fit their own prejudices. They plan only to deal with the unbending will of the aristocrat. They do not account for the possibility that anyone more cunning than they should attempt to aid the nobles in their escape. Oh, I dare say they may work it out eventually, but by then we will have found other routes, other ways. Catacombs, sewers, mines: they cannot all be guarded! Together, they form a labyrinth with so many entry and exit points that it would take the whole of the city above to adequately guard the city of the dead below. Come: mark out the known hiding places of your friends and let us find the best way to steal them hence."

XXXX

"How fares our fine captive, Mister Rory?" Rip breezed, swinging into the brig almost an hour later, voice and face working overtime to maintain his cool, dispassionate exterior. He didn't risk a glance at Sara or Mick, not even Amaya. They all knew him far too well. Hoban on the other hand...

"Better'n I was last time her pals finished with me," rumbled Mick, in full smoking volcano mode and making the most of it. "Happy to change that."

"Ah, but we can't say we're the good guys and then do bad guy things, can we, Mister Rory?" Rip quipped, sweeping his coat back to stuff his hands in his pockets. "Not very heroic, you might say."

"Just as well I ain't a hero," replied the villain, lips curling in a sharp smile. The kind sharks have.

"Our guest has determined that she has nothing to say to us, Captain," reported Amaya, watching the show with mild disinterest. "Perhaps you will have better luck."

"Yes, indeed, Madame Jiwe," agreed Rip, bowing slightly to Amaya in acknowledgement. "Let us find out if that is the case. If you would be so good as to give Miss Hoban and I some time alone, please."

Amaya inclined her head in assent and led the way out of the room, Mick stalking out behind her.

"You too, Sara," nudged Rip, eyes not daring to flick up to the reflection of the silent figure behind him.

With the slightest of sounds, the figure moved. "Was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."

"Oh, I could never do that," breathed Rip, hearing the door close behind her.

Kate Hoban sat on the small bench at the back of the glass-walled cell. She had never been one to follow the usual restraints of Time Captain fashion. Not for her the neat, knee length skirts and officious, well pressed blouses common to most female captains. Tight green trousers tucked into knee-high brown leather boots showed off shapely legs, legs that could take down an adversary and have their neck under her heel before they knew it. As he had reached the top of his class for his ability to blend in with the crowd, so had she reached hers for her hand-to-hand fighting skills. Even with his little trio of warriors present, had the walls of the brig not been there, she would have made short work of him.

"You know, it's rude not to give a person their proper title, Captain Hunter," smirked the all too comfortable captive.

"Oh?" Rip sniffed and frowned, affecting an air of puzzled confusion. "And what title would that be then, _Miss_ Hoban? You can't be a captain. A captain has a ship. You don't. At least," Rip paused and shrugged, "not one that I can see."

"Oh, you found it then," surmised Hoban, her voice as light as if Rip had just told her he had located a book he had misplaced. "I wondered what all the noise was."

Rip flashed a mirthless smile. "Empty vessels and all that."

"Who says it was empty?" Hoban smiled innocently, leaning back against the metal wall behind her.

XXXX

"Well?" Sara demanded as soon as Rip reappeared on the bridge. The door was still sliding shut behind him.

"Hmm," Rip tipped his head and pulled a face. He paused by Mick and fished a small book out of his pocket. "Here, Mister Rory: some light reading for the road ahead."

"I ain't much of a reader, boss."

"Nevertheless, the hero of the tale may interest you," shrugged the captain, continuing to the holotable. "I'll admit there's a lot, and I really do mean a _lot_ , of artistic license taken - heaven only knows why there must be a romance crowbarred into every tale: there certainly wasn't in the truth of it - but should you pay attention to the general ingenuity, audacity and laconic speeches of the character, you may find something to amuse you."

"I'll add it to my list," muttered Mick with a glance down at the slim volume. "Right after a dictionary."

"What book is it?" Amaya wondered aloud, walking over to look down at the tiny dog-eared paperback in Mick's huge hands. She read the title. Her eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Oh, most assuredly," replied Rip, almost grinning at the irony of it. "It's definitely on his resume now."

"What about Captain Kate?" Sara pressed, refusing to be dragged in to the change of topic and ignoring the whispering explanations of Amaya behind her. She joined Rip at the holotable and looked down at the screen he was working on. "We're not going back to the Vanishing Point then?"

A burst of stentorian laughter from Mick hid the flinch in Rip's hands as she drew near. "No," he answered, "we can't."

"Wanna tell me why?"

Rip tipped his head to the side and turned his nascent grin into a tight grimace.

Sara, expert as she was in reading such wordless communications, came to a quick deduction. "Who?"

"That much, my... my dear Miss Lance, she would not vouchsafe."

"Ah," Sara nodded, turning back to the screen below. The data was familiar. "What else _did_ she tell you?"

"Well, she was pretty damned gleeful when it came to her ship," he reported quietly, without looking up. "There's something hidden in there, I'd bet my life on it."

Sara turned and leant back against the holotable, glancing over to where Amaya was pointing out passages to a chortling Mick Rory. "Something?"

Rip looked round, focusing on her for the first time since they had left the medical bay. "What are you thinking?"

"We know there's someone else pulling the pirates' strings from the shadows," shrugged Sara, watching Mick laugh. "Our slippery friend Georgia told Mick as much. We know we're in an arms race with them. For every piece of tech they develop, Ray and Stein find a way round it. As soon as they know we've found a way round their tech, the Time Pirates come up with a way round our way round. We keep going round in circles: we're chasing them, they're chasing us. If you were at the head of an organisation like that - an organisation that has recruited at least as many ex-captains as you have - wouldn't you want to be sitting in the ship with the best defences?"

"You think their leader is in the hidden ship," summarised Rip, looking away in thought. "Yes, I suppose that makes more sense."

"You thought I meant him?"

"He has been rather uppermost in my thoughts lately."

Sara cast a sad smile over at the still grinning Mick, now avidly reading the well-worn manuscript in his hands, Amaya peering down over his shoulder all the while. "Yeah, mine too."

Rip was glad Sara's attention was elsewhere at that moment. As well schooled as he was in controlling his outward demeanour, there was no way she would have missed the pallor of his face, nor the expression that flitted across it, had she been watching him when she spoke. He felt sick.


	66. A Time to Gloat

"A cart nigh empty of firewood will do little to conceal our several passengers, my son," frowned Pere Etienne, looking down at the cart from the rooftop high above.

"Ah, but it will not be carrying firewood when out trader leaves," drawled Guillaume lazily, looking sidelong at the confused cleric. "I have a score of apple barrels, empty of course, waiting to be transported out to the farms they came from."

Etienne's face blossomed with understanding. "But these barrels, they will not be truly empty when the cart leaves. Not all at least: a few, perhaps, for the citizen soldiers to check as befits their duties. The rest, cunningly concealed in the centre of the set, will contain our trembling refugees and bear them to safety. The carter, perhaps: he is on our side?"

"No," replied Guillaume simply, watching the priest with amusement.

"Ah. Then he will not know what he carries! All the better to fool the guards!"

"No," Guillaume shook his head.

Etienne frowned. "But our friends will be in the barrels, yes?"

Guillaume breathed in slowly and turned his cool, calm gaze full on the younger man. "No."

Pere Etienne's frown deepened, he sank down below the parapet, his back to the perimeter wall. Guillaume slid down beside him and waited.

"Then what, Guillaume, is your plan?" Etienne asked, wrapping his arms around himself to keep the late winter chill out.

"They know we are cunning," explained Guillaume, in that same lazy drawl. "They know we have been using the tunnels. Sewers, catacombs, mines: all are now blocked off to us bar a few entrances that are thoroughly guarded. We cannot use them. Well, if we cannot leave below ground, and we cannot fly above it, then we must leave on foot. Every cart is checked, but not every barrel, it is true, but even I, mon Pere, could not dare to say with full accuracy which barrels would be checked or no. All I can say is that the captain of the guard on duty at the west barricade every Tuesday evening has usually enjoyed to much wine with his supper and never checks them all. No, we'll send our little carter out there, innocent as a babe, with no unthought of cargo to burden him. I can also say that, thanks to our English allies and our helpful friend, rumour, the captain and his men will be looking for a more than common tall Englishman of noble bearing. Now I may be tall, and I can sound and act English when I choose, but noble I ain't or there's no way I'd suggest what I'm about to."

"Nobility takes many forms, my son."

"Be that as it may, off will our little carter go, a little richer for his pains, but no so much as may incriminate him. When once he is clear beyond the barricade, out we will come, at a run, heading for the captain. 'He is there,' we will cry. 'The ringleader. The Englishman. The Scarlet Pimpernel! And you have let him go! He and all his stolen aristos!' We will chase after the cart, not stopping to have our faces and gear scrutinised, dragging the captain and his men behind us in the chase. We will let them pour forth, leading hot on the heels of our poor carter, and have them busy themselves checking all the barrels. With one man on the carter as a guard, the rest can turn their attentions to such a task with impunity. Then, as they tear open the score of barrels in search of Scotch mist, off will we creep. I as the captain, my stolen aristos as my citizen soldiers. By the time they look for us we will be gone."

"And your English friends will meet you in Calais?"

" _Our_ English friends, mon Pere," corrected Guillaume, "and it is near Calais we will meet them, out by the Cap Gris Nez."

"But, my friend: can you play such a part?"

"I have set foot upon a stage in my long life, mon Pere," Guillaume assured the priest. "I can act."

"Then should this daring escape succeed, my son, you will become the stuff of legend."

"Life as a legend," Guillaume's lip curled into a slow smile. "I can live with that."

XXXX

"Rip?" Sara's voice echoed around the empty bridge. It was still early morning. Any of the crew that hadn't ended up asleep at their desks were still in bed. A snuffled snort from the office told her the name of at least one of the former. "Rip!"

"Sara?" Rip's muffled and bleary voice answered.

She could almost hear him blinking. "Gideon: lights up, please."

"Argh! You insufferably horrible woman!" The insincere insult floated down from the office, muttered as it was. Sara grinned.

"To whom do you refer, Captain?" Gideon enquired with the cheerful serenity of that one person everyone else really, really hates first thing in the morning. "Myself or Miss Lance."

In the silence that followed, Sara paced up the steps, still grinning. She could tell he was doing the mental maths.

"Well," groaned Rip, sounding decidedly more thoughtful and awake, "since one of you is perfectly capable of expelling me out of an airlock, and the other one of getting me there, I think I shall observe my right to remain silent on that matter."

"Wise choice," laughed Sara, leaning on the doorframe to look at him. He was at his desk, papers and maps scattered across it in what might once have been a logical order, hair all over the place, still pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes against the now harsh lights. "How's the head? Okay, Gideon, dim them a little bit."

"As you wish, Sara," acquiesced the AI. The brilliance surrounding them faded.

Rip blinked once or twice more. "Urgh, that's much better. Thank you, ladies."

"How's the head?" Sara repeated. "D'you forget to come to bed last night?"

Rip swung back round the paper covered expanse of his desk. "I was," he gestured at the papers, expansively, "busy."

"We won't find him any sooner by running ourselves into the ground," sighed Sara. "Ray, Martin and Jesse are all searching the archives too, not to mention Gideon."

"And I do not require sleep, Captain," interjected the very same.

"Duly noted," yawned Rip. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and dragged his hands up through his hair, turning it from what Sara deemed 'adorable mess' to 'utterly abominable' with her worst English accent. "I'll just grab a shower and some coffee and..."

"And a full eight hours sleep, in a bed, without drinking that coffee," finished Sara, walking over to him. "Come on: up you get. You either get some real rest or I get Tyler to sedate you."

At the touch of her hand, Rip jumped, pulling away from her with a short, sharp intake of breath. "I can manage Sara. I'm not an infant!"

"Just acting like one then?" Sara shot back, without pause.

"Sara, please!" Rip exploded, standing up so fast his chair rocked backward on its legs and fell. His hands fell, fingers tapping a nerve jangling serenade on the desk. "I am the captain of this ship and one of my crew is in need of rescue. I would hardly be doing my job if..."

"It's a time ship, Rip!" Sara retorted, throwing out a hand in the direction of the bridge. "And according to you, Leonard has been jumping through time for so long now he doesn't know who he is, let alone who we are or when we're all from! From what you say, it seems he doesn't even know he needs rescuing! It's not gonna do him any good sitting up here all night looking over the same stuff ten times because your brain's so fried from caffeine and sleep deprivation you can't even see straight!"

She was sounding angry now, he thought. Good. Angry was good. Fighting was easier. Hadn't it always been? "Dammit, Sara, it's my fault he's in this mess!"

"No, it's not!" Sara frowned, puzzled but no less irritated. "We've been through this! We went through this when we thought he was dead! When you thought you were responsible for his being dead. We agreed: he made his own choices. I haven't heard you mention feeling that responsibility for months! Why now, when you know he's still alive? And don't even think about saying you should have remembered sooner. You know it doesn't work that way. You were the one had to explain it to us!"

"It's not that..."

"Then spit it out, Rip," demanded Sara, her tones turning menacing. "Because I'm getting sick of arguing with the back of your head!"

Rip's head dropped, watching the irregular dancing of his fingers below him.

"Rip?" Sara warned.

He sighed, hiding his nightmares behind closed eyes. "When Mister Snart first met me after his ordeal with the Oculus, the younger me, that is, of course," he began, "he made me promise to remember him."

"You did remember him," Sara pointed out, patience running thin. "This would be a pretty weird conversation if you didn't!"

"Pretty weird conversation now!" Rip muttered under his breath.

"Rip," Sara repeated, her voice descending to a growl now.

"That wasn't all he wanted me to promise."

"So?"

"Amongst other things," he sighed, shoulders dropping in surrender, "he made me promise to take care of you."

"You did," Sara blinked, the ire in her voice fading.

"Not in the quite the way I think he meant," the captain half-laughed, his head tipping slightly to one side.

"He couldn't have predicted we'd fall for each other," Sara shrugged, edging a little closer again. "None of us could! This time last year I couldn't have predicted I'd end up kissing _him_!"

"This time last year we'd only known each other just over a month!" 

"My point exactly!" Sara remonstrated, edging closer again. "We've known each other longer without him around than with him now! And there isn't a moment of that time he knew you when you weren't being dragged through the worst kind of hell!"

"That doesn't change the fact..."

"Maybe things would have turned out differently between us if you had remembered him sooner, remembered making that promise: who knows. Maybe they'd have turned out exactly the same, even with him back on board. Who knows Rip? The _fact_ is that you didn't remember him sooner, and we did fall in love, and you cannot blame yourself for some imagined slight you didn't even know about."

"And yet, it feels to me like I did!" Rip snapped. "I remember him now, and I remember everything from the formation of that memory in my younger self's mind to the present moment as if it happened in precisely that order. The memory might be new but it feels old. I feel as if I have just left him to rot; and to rub salt in the wound I stole his girl too."

"I'm not _his_ girl," insisted Sara, halting in her progress towards him with ice forming in her heart. "I never was."

"But you might have been," added Rip, his head bobbing to the side again. "You wanted to be."

"Now is not then," she pressed. "I moved on. I fell in love with you."

"But you thought he was dead," said Rip serenely. There was no other way now. The snowball had all the momentum it needed. He had resigned himself to its crushing weight. "Now he's not. You'll always be wondering..."

"I won't."

"I would," and there: he'd said it. "I would, if Miranda walked back through that door. I would be torn to shreds wondering."

"Don't do this, Rip," groaned Sara, finally seeing where the conversation was going. "I love you. You loved Miranda. You loved her for years! You had a child together! I was only just starting to think maybe there could be something between Leonard and me. Something more than friendship."

"I know what you were starting to think," he sighed, "you told me. Back when all we were was friends, you told me everything you were 'only just starting to think' you felt for him. I'm not saying it's forever, Sara. I'm just saying 'for the moment'! Considering the circumstances, I think it would be better for both of us if we agreed not to see each other, not in that way, until you're used to having him around again. Who knows: when we find him, you might find yourself feeling something for him. Something more than friendship. And it wouldn't be fair on any of us for you to not find out what that is."

"You're breaking up with me," she blinked, eyes darting over his back, her heart not quite able to believe what her head told her he had been building up to ever since the memories returned. "You said you loved me."

"Sometimes, when you love someone, you have to let them go," he muttered.

"Don't give me that trite bullshit!"

"Please, Sara: my mind is made up."

"Mine isn't!"

"Precisely my point."

"Not what I meant and you know it!"

"Sara: just go. Please! Just go!"

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of footsteps receding. Rip leant down and picked up his chair, then slumped down into it with a sigh that bordered on a sob.

"If I may, Captain," proffered Gideon's voice from above, "I believe you are being an idiot."

"Quite possibly, Gideon," groaned Rip, his head back in his hands once more. "Time will tell, my friend. Time will tell."

"Until it does," continued the AI, "Mister Tyler has asked me to inform you that our guest is finally awake."

"Hoban?" Rip frowned. Why would Tyler think that worthy of note?

"Our other guest," Gideon corrected him.

Ah. That made more sense. "My word, Gideon, I had forgotten all about our patient from Jurgen's Ridge. And he's lucid?"

"Quite aggressively so, Captain," confirmed Gideon, the ever present smile in her voice oddly amplified by the inappropriateness of its use. "Mister Tyler and Madame Jiwe have restrained him in one of the quarantine chambers for now."

"Well I dare say it's as good a place as any," quipped Rip, pulling himself together as he rose from the chair, "and better than most, I'm sure. Please let them know I am on my way, Gideon."

"Of course, Captain," she assented, falling into silence.

Rip grabbed his coat as he passed the stand near the office door and shrugged it over his shoulders. It was his armour, almost as infamous in itself among the Time Pirates as he was himself. To show up without it might have indicated more confidence than he currently possessed, but that would have required bravado, and bravado required energy, and he just didn't have the energy for that. He was tired. So tired. Too tired. Sara had been right, of course, when she had suggested sleep: he was in dire need of a full eight hours and then some! With sleep, however, came dreams. Not good dreams. And so he stayed awake.

The corridors of the ship passed in a grey, metallic blur, flying past as weary feet followed the route they had taken so many times before. Eventually they stopped, their owner rocking to a halt in the doorway of the medical bay. Rip blinked owlishly at the two crew members standing watching him. He swayed again. It wasn't just the walls that were blurring.

"Gideon, the usual!" Rip ordered, ignoring the undoubtedly strange looks the others were giving him. He staggered over to the medical fabricator, where a syringe had just appeared. With the practised hand of someone who had played this trick many times over, most likely in much the same circumstances, Rip injected himself with the syringe's contents. Walls collided and resolved into one, the floor below him firmed up, and the two people watching him were now looking at him with barely concealed worry in their eyes.

"If that is a five percent solution of cocaine, Captain," began Tyler, folding his arms, "then I feel it incumbent on me, as your medical representative, to protest. There is no evidence beyond a single literary invention that the drug improves the mind, however temporarily."

"Duly noted, my dear Watson," quipped Rip, shaking his head as if to dislodge something, "but indeed it was merely caffeine. A mild stimulant, applied in a controlled manner, merely to ensure my faculties are operating at their utmost."

"I would point out, then, Captain," continued the android, "that caffeine is also a dangerous drug, if misused."

"I do not intend to misuse it, Mister Tyler," retorted Rip, his tones decidedly less jovial.

"You just did," Matthew pointed out.

"No, I applied battlefield medicine in a conflict situation. Speaking of which, I believe you had someone to introduce me to."

"Opinions must differ on your definition of 'conflict' in these circumstances, Captain," muttered the medic. "Nevertheless, allow me to introduce you to Erren Tol. Space explorer, adventurer, entrepreneur and reclamation expert."

Rip looked the man up and down. Mostly down. There wasn't much up. "So pirate then."

"Split the difference," sneered the pirate. "Privateer."

"Hmm," Rip waggled his head. "A privateer is just a mercenary with a ship. The only difference really between privateers and pirates is that the former usually at least tried to follow some sort of rule of law. Oh, and though they were in the pay of a private individual, they did have written permission from that individual's government. Which government do you have permission from, Mister Tol?"

Erren Tol scratched at the black growth of hair that had sprouted on his chin during his time unconscious, speckled here and there with spots of grey, then looked up at Rip with guileful dark brown eyes. "Well now, Captain Hunter. You being the main man around here, oughtn't you to _know_ who it is you're fighting?"

"Let's just call them an amalgamation of evils, and I'm eager to find out who came out on top," decided Rip, leaning on the frame of the cell and looking down at the man.

Tol stepped up to the edge of the clear door. He had to stand on tiptoe to look nose to nose with Rip's dropped head. "Then let's just say: it's someone very dear to your heart. And if you don't know who by now, you have _no_ idea how deep this thing really goes."

"Oh, I know of your little spies in my camp. I have one in my main brig. She was very forthcoming. Couldn't wait to gloat, actually, about how they'd pulled the wool over my eyes for so long. Funny thing, gloating: tells you quite a lot about a person. And yet, for some reason, villains can't seem to help themselves! Maybe the genes for gloating and being an evil psychopath are linked. What do you think?"

Tol grinned, his toothy smile cracking a narrow line in his round, slightly balding head. He rocked back on his heels and folded his hands behind him, turning and walking away from Rip as if thoroughly pleased with himself. "Well now," he murmured, surveying the walls and ceiling with intense care. "I dare say they might be. But you have to admit: they do usually have something to gloat about."


	67. A Time to Cry

Guillaume lay, his hands behind his head, his ankles crossed, stretched out on the narrow truckle bed in the dingy apartment. His cool blue eyes were closed, and his breathing deep and even. Softly, so softly, a dark figure approached the sleeping figure, one hand outstretched and reaching for Guillaume's throat. The figure paused, veiled by shadow, and let the hand descend. Fingers closed about the wrist, exerting vicelike pressure in an unbreakable grip.

"My son, it is time to rise!" Pere Etienne complained bitterly, wincing as pain shot through his innocent arm. At the sound of his voice, the pressure diminished and the hand withdrew.

"You could have just said, mon Pere," drawled Guillaume, dropping his hand to push himself upright. "I am a very light sleeper."

"So it appears," muttered the young priest, rubbing the bruised flesh of his released wrist. "Come: the hour approaches. I have made ready your supplies, just as you instructed, and there is a hot bowl of cassoulet resting on the table to break your fast. And yet, I wish it were not so. Truly, there is no help for it? You must escort our friends to Cap Gris-Nez yourself? But what of the news from our friends in England?"

"It worries me not," shrugged Guillaume, sauntering over to the rickety table in the centre of the room. "You worry me, Etienne. You must not fear for me: I know my business. I am well aware of the digging this new nemesis has been doing in England. He thinks me as all the others do: a hidden scion of English nobility, interfering in his country's just and righteous affairs. He would like nothing better than to capture me and drag me off to face his own brand of justice. I will flout him, however, have no fear. You, on the other hand, must have a care, and leave here before dawn, with no trace left of your presence that might lead to your identity. Take the route we have prepared. Go to the fifth of our safe houses. Do not return here. Our little apartment in the Rue du Bac must fall by the wayside and be taken from our list of hiding places. Word has reached me that it is suspected. I know not how. Nor would I have risked our short tenure here this night but that our plans could not, at such short notice, be rearranged. As such, they may be watching the place for my departure. Let me leave, as planned, and give them time to follow me. It is I they want: not you. Then go, and God be with you. I shall see you again before the next new moon."

Pere Etienne's brow wrinkled at this news, but he did no more than sigh, then turn to kneel before his crucifix and say his morning office. Guillaume sat down with a nod and began to eat. He had a long journey ahead of him, and the lion's share of the supplies Etienne had procured must go to his rescued refugees, some of whom had barely eaten in days, if they were to make it to the coast. When he had finished the meal - a relic of the priest's own childhood in Carcassonne - he donned the costume he had prepared, raised the travelling bag of supplies to his shoulder, and nodded a bow to his comrade in arms, still at prayer.

The escape from Paris was daring yet simple. A foul-smelling muck filled the cart: the collected excrement of as varied an assortment of animals as he had been able to find. Likewise he, the carter, stank as odiously as his wares. Together they, with the bold assuredness of a poor man going about his usual daily toil, made their way through the guarded gates of walled Paris, heading out on the road that would take them to the tanneries, ready to sell what effluvia had not been carried there by the sewers, down by the now mostly covered Bièvre river. The stench alone had been enough to deter the guardsmen: surely no haughty aristos would be able to take such an awful aroma as that! Nor would they soil their person with such detritus!

On the cart went and on, out past the tanneries and further. Out to the very edges of Paris where, amidst the shaded seclusion of the trees, fresh horses waited by a gently flowing stream. With a careful look round, the carter took up the rake held safely by the cart's side and dragged the heap of muck from the foremost end of the cart. The sides of the cart were deep and the waste was piled high, but after a short time it became apparent that there truly had been something else hidden below the muck. A wooden box was built into that end of the cart, reaching from one side of the vehicle to the other. It filled the bottom half of the cart, and had an iron ring screwed into place halfway along the edge that bordered the front of the cart. Guillaume hooked the ring with a tine of his rake and lifted. Below lay a canvas, and from below the canvas came two stiff and weary figures, who hopped over the front of the cart with Guillaume's help and headed for the stream to wash and drink. Air holes, though present, had necessarily been small and forward facing, and remaining still for long periods of time is detrimental to the comfort of any journey, no matter how luxurious, or not, the circumstances.

Removing his outer garments with a flourish, Guillaume stood ready to continue their journey as a pilgrim priest: a costume Etienne had found easy to supply. He mounted his chosen horse, waiting for his companions to do likewise, then turned its head west, to circle round Paris and head north, then west again, and on to the coast, to Cap Gris-Nez. As the little pilgrimage passed the cart, he reached into his pocket and took out a folded slip of paper, letting it fall on the once hidden door to the secret compartment of the cart. Contained within it, written in invisible ink that only his associates knew how to develop, were his instructions for both the cart and his return. Should the citizen soldiers of Paris catch up with them before one of his merry band could retrieve the cart first, however, all they would find was a pithy note and a red-ink rendering of a small, five-petalled flower.

XXXX

"Ah, the mistress! I was wondering when you'd be back," Kate Hoban sighed in that singsong voice people use when they feel they know something everyone else doesn't, and are bored waiting for the fireworks that will go off when the rest of the world catches up.

"My, my, don't you seem awfully pleased with yourself," Sara mused, strolling round the room with folded arms. "Not worried you might be missing all the fun?"

"What fun would that be?" Hoban blinked, all demure innocence that didn't wash one bit with the assassin.

Sara snorted a derisive laugh. "You got caught. You're stuck here, in our brig, until we take down your bosses. So you can sit here and count the panels on the ceiling if you want, but last I checked: that didn't take too long."

"I expect you're waiting for me to ask what my other options are," breezed the traitor, settling her hands in her pockets and leaning back against the wall. "Maybe you have a few ideas of your own. I've heard you have a type."

Sara's eyes narrowed. She took another look at the Time Captain, standing, leaning back against the brig wall in oh, so very familiar clothing. The denial on her tongue was superseded by another thought. "Now where might you have heard that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," grinned the prisoner. "Too bad you're not mine."

"Well, your source is mistaken," shrugged Sara, pulling a face. "Lying traitors ain't my style. And if they're mistaken about that, maybe they're mistaken about other things. Maybe you might want to think again about the information you got from them. I mean, it might be an 'honest mistake' on their part, but then again: maybe they're not quite as 'honest' as you think them. They've got to be lying to somebody, right?"

"Now, I'll admit, that might be the case," sighed Hoban, false heavy-heartedness weighing down every word, "but there's just one little problem with that little statement. Lover boy, out there, is a traitor. He turned his back on the organisation he had sworn his allegiance to. So did your other little conquest in our corps. But then, I guess that does make me 'not your type'. I stayed true to my vows. Sure, I may have done a little spying, but spies aren't traitors to the side they're spying on, they're just lying about who's side they're really on. So maybe it's just liars you seem to have a thing for. That's not quite the same thing now, is it, angel face?"

XXXX

Ray Palmer glanced up from the intricate piece of tech he was working on. It was... What? The tenth? Twentieth? Fiftieth time? He'd lost count. Still, Mick was just sitting there, staring down at the gun in his hands. He had been cleaning it. Well, he had begun cleaning it. Then his hands had stilled and he had just sat there, staring down at it as if mesmerised. Frozen.

"Y'okay, Mick?" Ray queried, his brows coming together in a slight frown of worry. "Mick?"

"Hmm? Huh?" Mick looked up with a start and shook his head.

"I said: are you okay?" Ray repeated, his own hands dropping the fragile item on the work bench nearby. "You've been sitting like that for nearly an hour now."

"Like what?"

"Like that!" Ray waved an explicatory hand at the arsonist. "Just sitting, staring at Snart's gun like it backfired and turned you into a popsicle!"

"Hmm," rumbled Mick looking down at the gun again.

"Now don't give me that," warned Ray, far bolder than he felt. "Something's bugging you. Tell me what."

"What good will that do?" Mick murmured, still looking down at the gun. "It'll still be bugging me after."

"A problem shared is a problem halved," quoted Ray with a grin. "That's what friends are for."

Mick growled a wordless groan at the aphorisms and closed his eyes. He heard Ray take a breath to speak again and cut him off. "Friends don't give you up for dead when you ain't."

Ray's sunshine grin faded. "Ah. But you didn't. You held on to the idea he was still alive when everyone else was convinced he was dead. You were sure he had a plan. You were right."

"And what did I do about it?" Mick snarled, raising a burning glare to Ray. "I sat here, chasing after you lot on mission after mission. Making myself comfortable. Letting you all in. Cooking for you! When the one guy I should have been helping is stuck out there on his own, going crazy! We had a code. For decades, we had a code! You never leave one of your own behind!"

"You were looking out for Sara," Ray reminded him. "We all were, but you made it your mission. You didn't leave _her_ behind. You _started_ cooking meals in here just to try to get her to eat!"

"Worked on Snart," muttered Mick under his breath, so quietly that the words could not be made out.

"What?" Ray blinked, straining to hear.

"It wasn't me that got her to eat them, though, was it?" Mick continued, loud enough now for Ray to follow him. "It was Hunter. Captain's orders. At least at first, anyway. Then she started getting better and he started being less of an ass and it was all good. Then I worked out why. And I did nothing. I didn't go looking for Snart. I didn't ask anyone else to look for him. Not even Smiley up there. I just left him. I gave up on him. And I was wrong."

"You said he always had a plan," Ray persisted. "No matter what: Snart always has a plan. And he did, Mick. He did, and it worked. It worked and Rip remembered him, and now we're going to find him. And we will find him, because Snart always has a plan, and he will have a plan for how we are going to find him, and it will work."

Mick looked from Ray to the cold gun in his hands, turning it over in thought, then back again. "It damn well better, Haircut."

XXXX

"Hi!"

Rip froze. Admittedly, so had the person heading down the stairs he was heading up. They weren't the most narrow of stairwells, but the corners were sharp and they'd both been on the inner side and she walked so quietly he never could hear her approach. Inwardly, he counted the litany of swearwords chasing each other through his mind, trying to block out how close she was, a step above him, the added height bringing her forbidden mouth so temptingly close to his own. If she didn't step back, he thought his body might just tear itself in two.

"Sara," he gasped, cursing silently at the barely hidden longing colouring the single word. Had he ever been able to say her name without it?

"Rip," she whispered back, studying his face. Every line was there, so familiar and yet so strange. The man she knew and loved, hiding his heart from her. Did he really care for her so little that he could stand back and switch off his feelings like a light? Could he really stand so close to her and feel nothing? Guilt and self-sacrifice was par for the course with him, but this? If he would only give her a sign that he still felt something. Just a sign. It had been a week already and still they were no further forward in their quest to find Snart. A whole week of avoiding each other around the ship, never meeting at meal times or to train, only seeing each other on the bridge, with everyone else present and business at hand. When was the last time she had spent so long apart from him?

This was it, he thought. This was why he hadn't dared look at her that morning. This was why he had avoided her presence, her gaze, her voice. She was his weakness. His drug of choice that he couldn't break free from, no matter how much he tried. He felt his control slipping, his head drifting forward to touch hers, the shock of electricity running through him at the contact, the touch of her hand, so soft on his cheek. And then he was lost. Lost in her arms and in her lips. In a kiss that would, he was certain, damn his soul for all eternity. She would not let him go, and he didn't have the strength to fight her.

XXXX

Guillaume awoke with a groan. One eye would not open. Hesitant fingers probed the swelling on his face. A bruise, no more. There was no warm, seeping fluid that might warn of permanent damage. His head ached. Everywhere ached. The ambush came back to him in flashes. The fists. The bayonets. The bullets. The soldiers. They had been lying in wait at the mouth of the river Slack: waiting for his tiny rowing boat, passing out at the height of the tide towards to yacht moored far out at sea. The net had been hidden below the waves at the mouth of the small estuary, the ropes that held it covered over with the coarse sand of the dunes. There had been no time to react. The ropes had been pulled taught. The net had risen, engulfing the small vessel and its secret cargo. Guillaume, dressed now as a humble fisherman, his hidden aristos cowering under a thick, canvas cover at the end of the boat, had fought his attackers as best he could, but then the guns sounded and pain sang through his shoulder as one lead pellet found its mark. Whether his charges were alive or dead, he knew not. Perhaps the screams he had heard, as the impact of something heavy sent him down into unconsciousness, were the screams of them dying. Perhaps they were merely screams of terror. The terror that had plagued Paris, and so much of France, for the past year. The terror that had brought about the death of a king. The terror that had become a tangible thing with the rise of that madman Robespierre. The terror that had brought so many to an unworthy and ignoble doom. That had brought war on France from all sides. That had sent their ambassador back from England, nose held high in self-righteous disgust and arrogance, to continue to thwart their plans on this side of the channel. And thwart them now, he had.

Guillaume pushed himself up to sit with his back to the cold, damp, wall. Where was he? What faint light filtered through his one uninjured eye told him little. There was a stone wall at his back, a stone floor under his hands. Both were filled with the chill of the autumn sea. Some kind of cellar, then. The old fort was build of such stone. A dungeon perhaps? An oubliette? But the fort had been abandoned for over a century now. Surely his spies in the village would have warned him had it become occupied? A sound brought his head snapping round with a force that made him wince. He listened, ignoring the clamouring pain in his very sinews. There is was again. The sound of footsteps on stone. Quiet footsteps, as though their owner was trying to mask his sound. But why should Chauvelin do so? Guillaume had met the ambassador before, in a more innocent persona unsuspected of such intrigues. The man was an arrogant, egotistical narcissist with an bee in his bonnet about the Scarlet Pimpernel. He it would be, and no other, who brought the rogue to justice. He would crow over such a victory, announcing his triumphant arrival in the darkened cell with as much fanfare as possible. These muffled tiptoes could not belong to such a man as he.

The footsteps stopped, not far off now, and a small, metallic noise was heard. Guillaume knew that noise. It was the sound of picks gently turning the mechanism of the lock. He froze, his breathing slowing to a steady, shallow, silent pace. The sound of a well-oiled metal door opening swept across the cell to him. It was followed by the single shaft of light from a dark lantern.

"Can you stand?"

The voice was decidedly English. London, Guillaume mused. "With aid. But I am bound. Who sent you?"

"I cannot tell you that," replied the Englishman, kneeling by Guillaume's side and setting down the lantern. Manacles clanked around his wrists and ankles and the Englishman again reached for his lock picks. "If I release your feet can you deal with your hands?"

"With the right tool, easily," breathed Guillaume, taking the proffered pick from the Englishman's hand and setting to work. "You are not one of my men. What may I call you?"

"Michael will do," murmured the Englishman. The light from the lantern fell across his face as he bent to free Guillaume's ankles. A spark of recognition flared in Guillaume's memory.

"You seem familiar, Michael," frowned Guillaume, pausing in his work, if only for a moment. "Have we met?"

"My colleagues and I have observed your work for some time now," muttered the self-proclaimed Michael without looking up. "Perhaps you have caught sight of my face in the crowd."

Another nudge of memory bumped against the recesses of Guillaume's brain. A face in the crowd. The idea seemed familiar. Yes, perhaps that was all. Yet he felt sure there was more. A name surfaced. A memory of past scrapes and rescues, fights and flights, a man by his side. Was it this man? He thought not, but the name...

"Mick?"

"Michael," the Englishman corrected, the last lock around Guillaume's ankles springing open as he spoke. "Come: we must hurry. Your story must not end here."

XXXX

He had no idea how long they had stood there, holding each other, wrapped in each other's arms and unwilling to let go, but he knew he had to. He had to let her go, and he had to make it a clean break between them. Seeing her every day, even with the others around, was too much. It hurt too much.

"You need to leave." He forced the words out, feeling every ounce of his being rebel at the sound of them. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you. I'll find him for you - you have my word - but you can't be here. We can't be together. Not right now. And I can't be around you and not be with you. I love you too much."

"Rip, don't do this!" Sara pleaded, her hands reaching up to cup his face. If she could only convince him. "It doesn't have to be this way!"

Rip let one hand drift over hers, keeping it in place, and brushed the tears from her eyes with the other. "I have no choice!"

"You _always_ have a choice!" Sara insisted, letting the fingers of their hands interweave. "You could choose to fight for us!"

"I am!" Rip whispered, brushing the hair back from her face. "In this case my choices are to act selfishly for my own short term gain, or to take the harder road that in the long term is better for _both_ of us."

"I love you!"

"I know," Rip's gaze dropped away from her. "I know you do, but that was before. Sara, we tell each other _everything_! I know how you felt about Leonard before he... Before he disappeared. I know how conflicted you were. How uncertain. You deserve some time to deal with those feelings, and any others that may surface with his return, without feeling burdened by any loyalty to me."

"Loving you is not a burden!"

"You know what I mean! Sara, please!" Rip turned his back on her and leant heavily on the wall of the stairwell. When he spoke again his voice had sunk to a whisper. "Don't make this any harder than it already is."

He heard her sigh, could picture her shaking her head, and his mind traced the pattern of receding footsteps as she walked away. When he was certain she was gone he let out a shuddering breath. Finally, he could afford to let his own tears fall.

XXXX

Sara sat in her room, on the steps leading up to her bed, her tearstained face resting on clasped hands, reliving a memory from long, long ago. It had been the first time she had really fallen apart on this ship, and it had been he who picked up her broken pieces and duck-taped them back together with soothing words and a change of focus. How she longed for him to do the same now. To charge through that door and kneel before her, saying he believed her, saying her way was better, saying he was wrong and taking her into his arms. Her head was spinning. The simple idea that Leonard was alive still hadn't fully processed and now her anchor had set her adrift. She felt like she was floating helplessly on a sea of emotions that were circling around her ever faster, blurring and resolving, dragging her down into a maelstrom of confusion, loss, and resentment, and so many other emotions she didn't even want to _try_ and name them all. Guilt, pain, sorrow. Joy, excitement, anticipation. She stared at the door and willed him to walk through. Please.

Please.

XXXX

Rip had been pacing his office for a good half hour and the ship for another hour after that. Finally, exhausted in every sense of the word, he had sunk down wherever his feet had led him, letting his head fall into his hands. The crew were keeping out of his way, he knew. Any insubstantial form he had passed on his single-minded stroll around the Waverider had stepped silently to the side and melted out of his vision. He had paid no heed to them or to his surroundings. Now, he looked up, almost laughing at the irony of where his steps had unconsciously led him. Before him, on the opposite side of the corridor, was Sara's door. The very door he had been trying to avoid.

It slid open.

Opposite him, level with him and staring right at him, was Sara. The pain in her eyes was like a knife in his heart. His resolve sharpened: this would be bad enough for both of them without any unnecessary complications. He stood up. She matched him. They met halfway, her arms sliding around him like they belonged there, dragging his mouth down to hers. He let her. He sank into the kiss, wrapping his arms around her and holding her to him, pressing her as close to his body as he could, as if the sheer passion of that embrace could fuse them into one being, never to be parted again. With a groan he relinquished his hold on her, moving her away from him and meeting her eyes.

"Goodbye Sara," breathed Rip, bringing up the light before she could react and catching her as she slumped into him.

XXXX

Sara awoke on something uncomfortable. She groaned. The place felt familiar, but not the Waverider. It lacked the super-clean smell of filtered and recycled air and the ever-present hum of the engines. She sat up and groaned again, blinking at the dull light.

"Hi baby, welcome home," murmured the soft voice of her father. She looked round for the door and felt a paternal hand on her shoulder, stilling her. "You can't go after him, Sara. He's long gone."

"No," she muttered, shaking her head even as her eyes focussed on the timeworn walls of her father's apartment. "No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't dare!"

"It's for the best," murmured Quentin, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "A clean break..."

"No," Sara cut in, still shaking her head, but this time with eyes scanning the well-used coffee table beside her. "No, Daddy, you don't understand. You don't know..."

"He told me everything," Quentin assured her, edging down to sit by her on the sofa and pressing a cup of coffee into her hands. "Man turns up on your doorstep with your baby girl unconscious in his arms, believe me: any father is gonna ask why!"

"Doesn't mean he told you the truth, or even all of the truth!" Sara muttered, sipping the hot liquid automatically, swallowing it without the taste of it registering in her mind. "He's good at that. It's what he does."

"You sure know how to pick 'em," smiled her father, wrapping an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Two of 'em!"

"No, that's not... It's not how it sounds. I didn't... I just... " Sara paused and took a breath. "It's complicated."

"It's love, honey: when isn't it?"

"Leonard and I... We were friends. Almost something more. Then he died. Then..." Sara looked down into the depths of the coffee mug. "Then Laurel died and I... I..."

"You grieved, baby. We all did," murmured Quentin, filling the looming silence that threatened. "And we Lances tend to get a little self-destructive when that happens. It's okay."

"He was there for me," she continued, her voice shaking. "We were friends. We were more than that. Then, somewhere along the line, we fell in love. And I was okay with that. I was happy. We were happy. Then he died and..."

"Woah, woah, back up there sweetie," Quentin interrupted, holding up his hand. "He what now? Who exactly are we talking about here? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I wasn't talking to a dead man two hours ago!"

Sara shook her head with a frown. "I knew he wouldn't tell you everything. He was hurt on a mission. We got him back to the ship and our medical bay. His heart stopped. Twice. We got him back. But it did something to his brain. Like some kind of reboot. And he started remembering things. Things he had no memory of before. And the first of those things was Leonard. Leonard Snart, alive and well and living in Paris during the French Revolution. Leonard Snart playing Paris at the Globe in Shakespeare's London. Leonard Snart inventing fire at the wrong end of the Stone Age. He decided then and there that we should put a pin in things until we found our lost sheep. Said he didn't want me to feel trapped by him. That he didn't want me to wake up one day and resent him for stopping me finding out if Leonard and I could have worked. I told him he was being an idiot. That I didn't feel that way. That I wouldn't. He just held up his hands and said it wouldn't be for long anyway. We knew where he was now. We would just go and get him, bring him back to the ship and himself. Time drift, you see: being stuck in the wrong time for too long, it messes with your head. We wanted to go to France first, but Rip said there was no point. He'd seen Leonard leave that time period. Couldn't risk messing up the timeline further. He said he didn't want to create a paradox. So we spent the past week searching the records for clues. We looked here, there and everywhere for Leonard, but there was nothing. Even Gideon couldn't find anything to help us. We set her searching history for anything useful. Then he and I... I thought maybe, if I could convince him we were better together, that I loved him and nothing was going to change that. I tried to convince him... I tried. We kissed. We fought. We kissed again. Then he knocked me out and here I am. Alone again."

"Well, I can't say as I understood half of that tale, baby, but I do understand this," said Quentin, turning his daughter to face him and waiting for her to meet his eyes. "You are not alone, Sara. Not now. Not ever. You got me, and you still got friends here. Half of them might be hiding out down in that bunker of theirs, but they're still here. Still fighting. And in Felicity's case, still tryin' to make sure I'm eating right. She's invited me over for movie night with the gang and I'll stake my anchovy-free pizza there'll be room for one more. Come on. I got your things in the spare room already. There's enough hot water for a halfway decent shower and enough coffee to keep you awake from here to Sunday. Whatcha say? Lance and Lance, facing the world together and kicking our demons in the teeth as we go."


	68. A Time to Seek

Oliver Queen was bent over the computer monitor, his eyes following Felicity's pointing finger and his mind trying to follow the hyperspeed ramble of nerd-speak coming out of her mouth, when he heard the secret elevator whirr into life. His eyes flicked around the room. John was training with Sara. Thea was out of town. He knew exactly where everyone else was. His hand was reaching for the bow before he his feet received the message to move. By the time the elevator doors hissed open, he was poised with an arrow ready to fly.

"You have ten seconds to explain your presence in a way I like or you can say goodbye to your right kneecap," he barked at the suddenly attentive figure stepping out into the bunker.

"My name is Rip Hunter..."

"Both kneecaps." Oliver added another arrow to the bow.

"Is Sara Lance here?" Rip persisted, frozen with his hands in the air on the edge of the elevator doorway.

"She does not want to see you," growled Oliver, aware of Felicity moving past him, and the sounds from the training area suddenly growing silent.

"You don't understand," begged Rip, chancing a tiny step forward. "I need her."

Felicity was halfway across the intervening space, flat palm raised, before either man could react. The hand never reached its target, however. Felicity's slim, pale wrist was halted in the midst of its arc by another, slimmer, paler hand around it. Rip, eyes wide, followed the arm to its owner.

"Sara."

"You."

"We found him. Again."

"You found him before?"

"He jumped before we could ever have got to him," the captain explained, his arms still raised, even though both Oliver and Felicity had lowered theirs. "Not this time. We know the pattern. Gideon worked it out. We know when he is and for how long. We only had to work out the where and we've got it. With time to spare. We tried before, twice, but he wouldn't come with us and we missed him. Now we've found him in the next era. We need someone he'll trust. Someone we think he'll remember..."

"If he remembers anyone it ought to be Mick," she sighed, turning away. "If he doesn't remember Mick what makes you think he'll remember me?"

"I have reason to believe..."

"Yeah, I'm gonna need those reasons," she cut in, picking up one of her batons and spinning it through her fingers.

Rip dropped his hands, sighed, his head shaking, and set his jaw. He should have expected this.

"It's been over two months, _Rip_. Nearly three," continued the assassin, passing the baton from hand to hand. "You dumped me here, no warning, no discussion, no choice. Now I have a choice. If you want me to choose to walk back on that ship with you now, you'd better have a damn good reason."

Rip's eyes flicked heavenward. She wanted a reason. Fine. "Back in the nineteenth century, we caught up with him in the aftermath of the American Civil War. He'd obviously been there for a while." Rip paused, his eyes closing as if he were in pain. He took a breath. "His wife was called Sara."

XXXX

Sidekick. The word kept bobbing up in Guillaume's brain. It was familiar, yet not. Every time he looked at Michael, that was the word that crept unbidden into his mind. For three years now the strange, secretive man had dropped into and out of his life, clearing his path or loosening his bonds. Guardian angel might be nearer the mark but that he was certain the man was flesh and blood. Those three years had seen much change in France. The death of a queen, following her king to the guillotine. War with England. The rise and fall of Robespierre, fanatical architect of the Great Terror. The deaths of thousands at the fall of the guillotine. Danton, Lavoisier, the young Princess Elizabeth, generals and political prisoners of all kinds, all culminating in the infamous deaths of Saint-Just and even Robespierre himself below the blade. Swift, merciless and final. The civil war that followed was less so. Cities were won and lost. Treaties were signed, and not all with France. A flag had been flown, officially now the flag of France. The king's son, Louis the seventeenth among what remained of his loyal subjects, had died in prison still just a boy. A young general, named Bonaparte, had risen through the ranks, climbing on the ladder of his victories in battle, most recently at Arcole. Gradually, a little at a time, peace was beginning to return to France. The guillotine was still in use, but the bloodlust of the rebellion had diminished. Bloodlust. Another word that stuck in his mind. Why? There was something there. Something he ought to remember. Someone. Someone important.

Guillaume cast a glance over at Michael again. The young man had turned up with a warning. Though the work of rescue had become unnecessary long ago, the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel was one which Citizen Chauvelin at least still pursued. His co-conspirators may have met their end years ago now, on a wooden stage in a marketplace, under the fall of the guillotine's blade, but he was still out there, determined to avenge them. If he could not now bring the Pimpernel to justice, then justice would have to be brought to the Pimpernel! The man had vowed to destroy him, and spent every waking moment focussed on this idée fixe. He had come face to face with Guillaume in the past, not least on the occasion of his and Michael's meeting, but he had seldom had the opportunity to do so in the light of day, or without some kind of disguise marring Guillaume's features. Still, the rumour ran that the Pimpernel was a nobleman of English descent. It appeared Chauvelin now believed the rumour to be false. He had been hunting the Scarlet Pimpernel throughout the glittering halls of England. Now he had returned to France, indeed to Paris, and Michael believed it would not be long before the location of Guillaume's latest safe house would be known to this nemesis.

"Your work here is done," Michael urged, his voice a low whisper. "I am no longer assigned to protect you. I should not be here even now. You must flee!"

"I will not run," snapped Guillaume. He took a sip from the glass in his hand and set it down, composing himself and his answer. "This imbecile has done his best to hunt me down for nigh on four years now, and he has, I grant you, come close to ending me more than once. Indeed he would have, had it not been for your timely intervention, on a number of occasions. But that was then. This is now. Then he was in command of whatever guards or soldiers were available to him, wherever he went in France, as well as those poor souls he dragged everywhere with him in his entourage. Now he is barely in command of himself! He is a pariah! Shunned by both the government and the governed. Friendless! He may have been a danger to me with a cohort of armed men at his back, but alone? I do not fear him. It is he who should fear me. Do you really think, were Chauvelin to attack me in some dim, dark alley of Paris, that I would not defend myself with equal vigour? Whom do you think would be the victor in such a death match?"

"You may call him imbecile all you like, Monsieur, but you know how cunning he can be: the traps he has laid for you," Michael pointed out. "I do not believe, friendless though he may be, that Chauvelin has lost his wits along with his armed men. He will not try to attack you outright. He will set a trap, just as he has always done. He will force you into a confrontation on his ground, where he has the upper hand, or he will set the bait in the trap and wait, in the shadows, for his prey to come near. Near enough that a bullet will not miss, this time."

"What bait can he hope to use against me?" Guillaume scoffed. "He knows the rumours are false now. He knows I have no rich land, title or possessions that he can withhold from me. He knows I have no wife or helpless family to hold hostage! The league is disbanded. I have had no contact with any member for over a year, save you and Etienne."

Michael sighed, his brow knotting into a weary frown. "Then I think we have successfully narrowed down the possible candidates."

XXXX

Sara stepped into the concrete walled room. Her head dropped to the side a little and her eyes rolled heavenward. Typical Ollie. Rip was seated in a metal chair, his back to her, his hands tied behind him, one wrist to either leg of the chair. By the look of things his ankles were similarly restrained. At the far end of the room, her father and the Green Arrow stood grim-faced and glowering. Rip's head was down. Sara felt a spark of anger flicker.

"Dad, Ollie: a word," Sara ordered, tipping her head to the door. The two men silently followed her out. When the door had closed and they were a safe distance from the door, she let the spark catch. "You tied him up? _Him_! Ollie, I really should have expected it from you, but _you_ , Dad? You know what he went through. What brought us together. You've put him in almost the exact same circumstance! Daddy: that's cruel!"

"He hurt you," Oliver growled. "I don't know what he was like back then, but I saw _you_ after he dumped you here, Sara: you were a mess!"

Sara's eyes came back to Quentin and he shrugged. "I'm with the green guy, baby."

"Tell me you didn't hurt him," snarled Sara, fixing Oliver with an icy blue glare. "At least tell me you two didn't go that far."

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. Sara transferred her glare to her father once more.

"We may have been a little rougher than we needed to," Quentin confessed, "but only a little pushing and shoving. Nothing more."

"And the blindfold," added Oliver.

"Oh, yeah: we may have blindfolded him a bit to get him there," Quentin added.

"How can you blindfold someone 'a bit'?" Sara snapped, looking thoroughly disgusted with the pair of them. "Now I'm going back in there to talk to him and don't either of you two _dare_ listen in!"

She stormed off, back to the door of the makeshift interrogation room, then paused, schooling the anger out of her features and voice before she opened the door. She still cared. He didn't need to know that.

There was a second metal chair sitting by the side of the room. Sara picked it up and placed it down in front of Rip, it's back to him, and sat down facing him. She folded her arms along the back of the chair and rested her chin on them, waiting.

"They've gone, if that's what you're waiting for," she said after a minute or so of no movement.

"Are the restraints really necessary?" Rip asked, his voice muffled by the angle of his head.

"You can take them off," she replied, well aware that, by now, everyone else in the building would be watching them on the security monitor. Watching, but not listening.

The ropes slipped to the floor behind his chair and Rip leant forward to untie his ankles. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," breathed Sara. "If you were, you would have sent Ray or Jax or Mick."

"Would you have come if I had?"

"Still haven't."

"And I'm still sorry," Rip raised his head and looked at her. "I'm sorry that I hurt you. I never, _ever_ , wanted to do that. I'm sorry that I'm hurting you again now, in so many ways. I'm sorry that I didn't check to see if you were alright. I could have. I'm sorry that what I'm going to ask you to do next is going to hurt you more."

"And yet, you're still gonna ask."

"I believe I have to. You're our best hope for the rescue of Mister Snart, and we don't know what will happen if he jumps again."

"Why not?"

"Gideon's projections suggest that his next jump will either collide with or overtake his native point in the time stream. If the latter, we have fewer problems..."

"But Gideon thinks the former is more likely."

"Precisely."

XXXX

There was a mission, it appeared, that had interrupted the hunting of Leonard Snart. The team had been deployed, on Luke's orders, to correct a small error in the timeline in Rio, in the middle of the carnival. As Sara expected, it had turned out to be organised chaos! Gideon reported the proceedings faithfully, as always, leaving out nothing to spare the blushes of her crew. It had begun with a simple rescue mission, hit an interesting spot in the middle, when the much looked for break occurred in Snart's case, and ended with Rip counting heads back onto the ship, post haste. Amaya, Matthew, Jesse, the captain they had been sent to rescue, Jax, Ray, Martin, who had apparently forgotten both his name and half his clothing into the account, and lastly Mick, who was having some sort of silent argument with Ray.

"I had an idea," Rip explained, picking up where Gideon left off. "The missions we'd been sent on, the places we'd visited: they all came close to time periods where Matthew hid the fragments of the Worlogog, and usually fairly close in geographical terms too. We'd been using the wrong kind of maps. We started from scratch, tracing the points and places of the Worlogog fragments on top of the charts Gideon was using. There was a pattern. The places we jumped to followed that patter. So did Mister Snart's known movements. I surmised that there may be more of a link between his jump points and the Worlogog that previously thought. We followed the pattern to its next point, looked for anomalies around it and took an educated guess. The jump brought us into some fairly heavy weather and the Waverider took a few serious hits from the lightning. Even with Gideon's help, we almost crashed. We landed in a canyon, and at first we thought we were off course and back in the grand canyon, all chasms and crags, but then the systems rebooted and we were only a few kilometres from the farm we had in mind. Imagine our jubilation when Gideon's sensors first picked up Mister Snart's biometric signature! Five different signals that identified our quarry as being truly Leonard Snart, not some genetically similar ancestor or coincidence."

"Indeed, it was at this genial moment that I returned from the medical bay, my faculties once more intact," interrupted Professor Stein, taking over the tale. "I had to endure much questioning about my life and history and how I came aboard the Waverider, but it was eventually accepted that I knew myself once more. All around me were people telling me we had succeeded in locating Mister Snart, and arguing over how best to approach him. I felt it incumbent upon me to remind them that if they sat around arguing all day, the aforementioned Mister Snart might just up and vanish and jump on to the next time period, and then we'd have to go through all that rigmarole again!"

"Of course I felt necessary to point out that this was precisely the reason we were so anxious to select the right method of approaching Mister Snart," added Rip, with a shrug.

"And I, myself suggested the use of caution when approaching him," beamed Martin, resembling nothing more than a child who had scored full marks on his science test. "He may not know he has particular skills and talents, not where he acquired him, but that does not mean somewhere in his muscle memory, deep in the cerebellum, his body does not remember."

"And I pointed out I'd already mentioned that at the start of the argument," sighed Jax.

"Meanwhile," chipped in Jesse, "Gideon and I were poring over any information we could find about the man we now knew to be Leonard Snart, while Ray was too busy trying to lose a glaring contest with Mick."

"The rest of us were ready to try whatever plan our Captain deployed," nodded Matthew, stealing the story from the speedster. "Madame Jiwe, the Captain we had just rescued and myself had said our individual pieces and had no further argument to make. We awaited a decision."

"I just didn't want to have to dress up fine," growled Mick. "Not like Rio. It had feathers."

"I decided that Mister Rory should initially approach our quarry," explained Rip, grappling to regain control of the tale. "If only to give Doctor Palmer some time to relax!"

"I was supposed to stay here, on the ship," clarified Ray, certainly not showing quite as much fear of Mick as the others might have her believe he had, Sara thought. With a grin the inventor continued. "But I didn't. You see, we could see from Gideon's data where Snart had been recently and where he was more likely to go. So I figured, he's probably most likely to head down to the wood pile a half hour before dusk to stock up the firewood in the farmhouse for the night. I got into my suit again and shrunk down, following Mick out of the hold. I expected to see him go one way while I went the other. I thought I'd buzz about like a firefly and lead him up to where Mick was. Only it turns out Mick had spotted the same thing and had chosen the very same place. And there was me, trying not to get spotted, when, apparently, Mick knew I was there all along."

"We were nearly at the woodshed when we heard it," said Mick, taking over again with barely a sidelong glance at Ray. "A scream of pain. Definitely Snart's. We broke out running, but got ourselves turned about in the woods and had to slow down and work out where we were and where we were going. When we got there we saw this guy, all decked out in some fancy costume, standing over Snart with a rifle. He must have clocked him one while his arms were full of firewood. No way he'd have got the drop on Snart otherwise, memory or no memory. Haircut zoomed in and by the time fancy guy pulled the trigger that gun was firing backwards. You'd think that might make a man stop and listen, but all Snart did when he saw us was pick up his firewood and run off. He always could run faster than me, even weighed down with the loot."

"We didn't think it would be a good idea to go after him so we came back here," admitted Ray, a half-smile tugging at his apologetic mouth. "I picked up a couple of minor burns from the bullet backfiring before I was completely out of the gun, but Matthew had a look and said it was okay."

"I had been searching my memory files for any recollection of Mister Snart's face," added Tyler, fixing his steady gaze on Sara. "I seems I had indeed crossed paths with him before, in Acre. When I left the group to retrieve Madame Jiwe from the slaver's ship, it was he who helped us escape. He was rescuing a boy. At this point, if you recall, I had no knowledge of what Mister Snart looked like, or, of course, I would never have let him out of my sight. Also, the impression given me by the rest of you about him suggested he was not often guilty of being a 'hero' in the events before the oculus explosion. In this short encounter, he was guilty of it indeed!"

"Meanwhile, I was out scouting out some of the land nearby," said Jax, "when I get picked up by this group of military police who think I'm an escaped slave at best and an escaped slave who's also a _spy_ at worst!"

"Indeed, I almost didn't go after him, this time!" Rip muttered. "Really: how hard is it? One rule! Don't wander off! Why does nobody _ever_ listen?"

"So we split the team into two groups," shrugged Martin, a shy smile on his face. "One to accost Mister Snart, the other to rescue Jefferson. Doctor Palmer and myself were a part of the former and we did indeed find Mister Snart and gain his trust long enough for him to talk to us, tell us something about himself. I was halfway through telling Rip the good news when suddenly Mister Snart was gone!"

XXXX

"Where did you see him last?" Michael muttered the query with a half-hearted interest, picking through the odd array of items in a drawer by the bed. He edged a black cloth roll open at one end. "I say, you do have quite the thief's assortment here."

"He's a priest, not a set of keys," drawled Guillaume, slapping the Englishman's hand away from the bundle. "Hands off: that's there for a reason."

"In case you have a sudden urge to practise lock picking in the dead of night?" Michael hummed back, closing the drawer, the roll of picks still in place.

"In case I have to leave suddenly, 'in the dead of night', and don't want to spend time gathering a set of my most useful tools," shot back Guillaume, checking behind the frame of a shabby little picture on the wall and withdrawing a folded slip of paper. He waved the paper at Michael. "Sets of keys aren't quite so good at hiding notes telling you where they're going."

" _A_ set?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "You mean you have more than one?"

"What fool doesn't?" Guillaume retorted. "Any man in my position must surely be ready for any eventuality. A plan for everything!"

Michael bobbed his head from side to side and shrugged. He had see quite enough situations where the ability of the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel to 'plan for everything' had meant the difference between life and death. At a nod from his companion, he followed him out of the single room apartment, down into the street and through a winding array of twists and turns, side streets and tunnels, designed to ensure anyone following them had both a difficult and a disagreeable time. The Parisian sewers were not the most malodorous he had ever been in, but at this point in their history they weren't far off!

They surfaced in the crepuscular twilight of dawn, enough light filtering over the horizon to suggest the shape of a great mound rising up before them.

"Where are we?" Michael asked, half an idea already forming in his head. Before them, high on the hill, the clacking mechanism of a semaphore tower protruded from a tumble of stone.

"Montmartre," murmured Guillaume under his breath, "and the city will be stirring, have no doubt. We must go quietly, on foot, as like to ordinary citizens as we may. There is a watchman on that tower, looking ever outward, and we must pass below his very nose."

"Where are we going?" Michael frowned. He had never, in all his time working with the Pimpernel, followed him this far north while still in the city, nor did he know him to have any safe houses outwith the city walls. "I have follower you thus far without complaint, through roads which would have thrown off the hardiest of trackers. Surely you can tell me now!"

"I just did," purred Guillaume.

"You cannot mean..."

"Looking ever outward," Guillaume repeated with a tiresome sigh. "When guards spend their time doing that, where are they _not_ looking?"

Michael looked from Guillaume to the tower and back again. His mouth hung open. "It is an immense risk!"

"What other kind are there?" Guillaume grinned and walked on. "I have a reputation, do I not?"

Michael, dumbstruck, shook his head and followed in silence once more. The winter winds had begun to blow through the streets of Paris, and this far out from the centre they made their presence felt. He pulled his cloak closer about him and hurried after his leader. The route Guillaume led them took the pair up the great hill following a road that was beginning to be well used. As they mingled with the other citizens, Michael saw the shape of the semaphore tower silhouetted against the sky, the shape of the rubble behind it more discernible now. It once had been a church. The church of Saint Peter, he recalled, and the revolutionaries had torn it down, using its fallen stones and timbers to construct their homage to modern communication on the remains of its apse. They followed the morning commuters along a road running past the dreaded watchtower when Guillaume broke off to the left, down dirt track bordered by the ruined church on one side and green fields on the other. He circled round the ruins, making as if to follow the track back down the north-western side of the hill and away, then, when he reached a small copse of trees, halted.

"Well?" Michael whispered, glancing back at the church through the branches. "What now?"

"Now, we wait," purred Guillaume, entirely in his element. "The tower is in daily use, but not enough to warrant an extra guard for when messages come in. We need only wait for one such to do so and our path will be clear."

Michael subsided into calm silence. Here, in the shelter of the trees, the wind bit less brightly and the air was a shade warmer in consequence. Not enough to stop him hiding his hands under his arms, nor wrapping his garments close, but enough that he did not feel the need to move around to keep warm, and risk drawing attention to himself. He was better trained than that, and not just by the Pimpernel. Still, it irritated him that he alone seemed to feel the chill in the December air. December by _his_ calendar, anyway, not by Paris'. He leant against a tree and surveyed the man he had, so often in the past three years, or six months by his timeline, been charged to protect. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons, he thought, laughing inwardly at the irony the words bore in his own life.

"How is it that the cold does not bother you?" Michael asked after an hour or so of frozen mental meanderings.

Guillaume dipped his head gracefully to one side. "I've had worse," he answered, eventually. "Can't say exactly when or where, but I've had worse."

"So have I and I'm still Baltic!" Michael muttered under his breath. His teeth were threatening to start chattering. He clamped his jaw shut in defiance of them.

If Guillaume heard this, he gave no indication of it. His eyes were fixed on the activity at the tower. A sudden tension in the Pimpernel's muscles told Michael something was happening. He thought he could guess what and, my, how he thanked heaven for it!

"They have a message," Guillaume confirmed, pushing himself away from the tree he stood behind. "Quickly! Follow me!"

The two men darted out of the cover of the trees, crouching low and making for the far end of the ruined church, where part of the nave still rose high. Guillaume pulled back the branches of a nearby shrubbery to reveal a small doorway set in a hollow of hill on the north side of the ruins. He pulled a set of lock picks from his pack and deftly opened the door, crouching to fit his tall frame through the gap. Michael followed, likewise, pulling the door closed behind them. In the ensuing darkness, he felt Guillaume reach past him and pull something. The hushed scrape of branches fell across the door once more.

"Give me your hand," breathed Guillaume, close by. "Put it here, on my shoulder. We can light no lamp until we are well inside the crypt."

Michael did as he was bidden, stumbling slightly when they started walking, but soon finding the task easier. The way ahead had been cleared of obstacles a man might trip over in such gloom and Guillaume had learnt every step of the way. They turned once, twice, then a third time, always descending, and finally caught a glimpse of light up ahead. It glowed around the corner of another junction in the tunnel. They turned, finding candles lit upon an altar, illuminating the vaulted ceiling with a sacred light. Indeed the priest had been here.

He was not here now.

Guillaume frowned. Shaking off Michael's now unnecessary hand, he dashed up to the alter, lifting one lit candle and removing a roll of lock picks from a hollowed out portion of its base.

Michael's eyebrow rose. "Exactly how many sets do you have?"

As Guillaume placed the candle down again, his eyes fell on the melted wax and his frown deepened.

Michael felt his own brows crease. "What's wrong?"

Guillaume ignored him, turning to the tabernacle and unlocking it with ease. He withdrew a rolled up piece of paper from behind the sacred vessels and turned back to the alter. His eye caught the candle again and the frown returned. "This should have been our safest hiding place," he murmured, watching the flickering flame. "Yet Etienne has felt the need to leave within mere hours of his arrival. This candle would have been lit by him and it has not yet burnt down six hours of its wick. It last guttered more than half that time ago, and no air moves in this crypt bar what we move with us." He unrolled the note and cast an eye over its contents. "He says he fears he was followed and has followed the plan we had laid out for such an occurrence. He will meet me in our agreed place. We must leave now."

"He was," intoned a dolorous voice. "He did. He will not. Too late."

Guillaume looked up from the note. The candlelight reflected of the shining point of a blade, pressed to Michael's throat. Emerging from the shadows behind it like a demon bent on claiming it's fee was the emaciated, grey form of Chauvelin. That he had fallen on hard times was indeed apparent by his appearance and apparel, but the one thing he had taken care to keep sharp was his sword. A trickle of blood ran down Michael's unmoving neck.

Guillaume let his hand fall to his own blade. "What have you done with Etienne?"

"Nothing," shrugged the ex-ambassador. "Should I have? It is _you_ who are _my_ prey, Monsieur le Pimpernel! I have no need to chase after your underlings. Leaderless, they will be easy to pick off."

"If you kill him, I will kill you," stated Guillaume evenly. It was not a threat, merely a fact.

"I have no doubt, indeed, that you will," laughed Chauvelin. He pressed the blade against Michael's throat again and another rill of blood began to run. "But what, pray tell, will you do to prevent his demise?"

Guillaume drew in a long, slow breath, breathing in through his nose and letting the breath out even more languorously through his mouth. He was perfectly at ease. Perfectly himself. There was merely him, his sidekick, and their enemy. Nothing else. And they were on his ground. "What would you have me do?"

"Kneel!" Chauvelin spat, the pure venom of hatred sizzling through every word now. "Kneel before me and submit yourself to my justice! The mercy of the guillotine has been spared you, and I know well I cannot bring you there myself now, but I can see its justice done! I shall see it! I have been patient! For years I have been patient! I have endured insult after insult! Slight after slight! I tracked down your last lair. I watched and I waited! I waited and I watched! I saw the priest, and he saw me! I watched him make his escape! I tried to follow, but could not, so I returned and searched that hovel. I found the note. I replaced it. I followed the priest here, watched him enter. I waited for you to arrive! And when he left, before you came, I investigated this place myself! A crypt! A dead-ended tunnel with one way in and one way out! I saw my chance! I have waited years for this moment! What were three hours more to me? I did not think to hope for such leverage as your friend here! I thought only to catch you here, in a trap of your own making, and have the satisfaction of introducing my sword to your heart's blood!"

Guillaume raised an eyebrow at this vitriolic rant, but remained calm, his hands behind his back. "Indeed? You would have me kneel down and sacrifice my life for that of a man I know you will only attempt to kill again as soon as you have had done with me? You have told me your intentions, citizen Chauvelin. You have told me your wishes. Now tell me what in this world makes you think I would submit to them?"

"I have your friend's _life_ in my hands!" Chauvelin snapped, as if this were explanation enough.

A smile slid across Guillaume's face. He dipped his head to one side. "Do you?"

Guillaume's hands moved so fast they blurred. Something whirred past Michael and Chauvelin's faces. The sting of the sword's blade pulled away from Michael's throat and he threw himself free of the madman. By the time Chauvelin had recovered himself, he was looking down at a sword buried deep in his chest. So deep it protruded through the other side and exited his back, gore dripping like fire in the candlelight.

"Lodestone," growled Guillaume in the face of Chauvelin's obvious confusion. "Attracts iron. Useful for turning bolts from the wrong side of a door. Also for dragging steel swords out of unsuspecting hands." He twisted the sword and pushed the one time nemesis away, letting him fall in a crumpled heap on the crypt floor. "Why do the bad guys always feel the need to gloat?" Turning, his eyes fell on Michael, now standing with his back leaning heavily on the wall, a reddening handkerchief pressed to his throat. "You good?"

"I'll live," nodded Michael, wincing at the involuntary movement. "What about him?"

Guillaume knelt and wiped his sword on Chauvelin's tattered clothes. "Well, he did call this a tunnel with a dead..."

Michael Carter, mostly know as Rip Hunter, blinked at the empty air beside the dead body. He staggered over and picked up Chauvelin's smallsword, the lodestone still attached, looking from sword to body and back again. "Bollocks!"

XXXX

The tale had taken many interruptions and questionings but finally the rest of the crew filed out, leaving Sara alone with Rip. He turned and headed for the familiar confines of his office, unsurprised to hear her follow him.

"How long has it been for you, Rip?" Sara asked, spearing him with an icy blue gaze as he settled himself into his chair, one hand idly massaging an old scar on his neck. "How long? Not months. Weeks, maybe. Days? Hours?"

"Sara..."

"No!" Sara cut in, pushing herself off the desk and standing over him, arms folded and glare lethal. "Answer me, Rip. If you don't, one of the others will. You know that. It might as well be you."

He let his eyes flick up, catching hers. There was fire in her gaze and, for once, Rip found his own faltering. He turned the chair and pushed himself out of it, letting the momentum of the action carry him aimlessly around the room. Various items seemed to catch his meandering attention: an art deco desk lamp; a Roman gladius on a wall; a French épée de cour on another; a centuries old first edition looking like it had just been printed yesterday. Each in turn beautiful, dangerous and much older than it looked. He paused by the gramophone, tracing listless fingers over the antique brass.

"One week," he said, his eyes fixed on the familiar record sitting in place, ready to resume its melody. "It's been a week."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," murmured Rip, when the silence continued. "I thought it was for the best."

"You what?" Sara frowned. Her voice shook with the effort of keeping it low. "How many times? You do _not_ get to make decisions like that, Rip. Not for me. Not about this."

"Sara..."

"No, don't you dare," she warned, a hand reaching out to drag him round to her. He turned, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "You do this, Rip! You do it all the time! Whenever something goes wrong, anything at all, it's all on you. The weight, the responsibility, the sacrifice. Not this time. You don't get to be the martyr here!"

Emerald eyes slid down to meet hers. The resignation in them chilled her. "Believe me, Sara," said Rip, daring to raise a hand and brush a strand of hair back from her face. He paused as she leant into the familiar touch. When he spoke again, his voice was shaking. "Believe me: if I could have stranded myself for three months, I would have."


	69. A Time to Find

"This is _not_ a good idea," stated Rip, his eyes following the flowing fringes of the flapper dress Sara was just wearing. It shimmered when she moved.

"Noted," snapped Sara, fixing the minimalist matching headband that kept her bobbed wig in place. Everything else was done. Her make up, her jewellery, her plan.

" _I_ should be going with you," protested Rip. He was leaning on the door frame, arms folded, decidedly not dressed for the roaring twenties.

"Mick knows him best," Sara countered, still refusing to meet his eyes. She couldn't. Not right now. "If he's there, Mick and I will find him, and Mick and I will handle him."

"By 'handle' you mean..."

"We'll see if he recognises us," she shrugged. "If he does, great. If not, I'll knock him out and Mick'll carry him back to the ship."

"How elegantly simply!" Rip jibed. "You'd think it was a puppy you were tracking down, not a dangerous criminal!"

"He's not dangerous to _us_ ," snapped Sara, louder than she had meant to. She took a breath, resting her fingertips on the table so that she didn't have to turn round. "Even if he was inclined to cause trouble, I can handle Snart. So can Mick."

"All indications suggest Leonard Snart has inhabited this era for at least a decade, Sara," Rip pointed out, pushing himself off the door frame and walking towards her. "He may not be the man you knew. Not at first. Time drift of this level, and from what I remember of him in London and Paris, and he might not know _any_ of us at all. Not even Mick. Not even you."

"But if he's going to remember anyone it'll be the people he was closest to, right? That's why I'm here, correct?"

Rip looked away and nodded. "Most likely, yes."

"Then that's Mick, and that's me," she concluded. "We could go get Lisa, but..."

"Heavens no!" Rip's eyebrows shot up at the suggestion. He had met Lisa only once, when he, Mick and Sara went to tell her of her brother's death. She had... made an impression.

"Didn't think so," murmured Sara.

The emotionless chill was back in her voice. He could hear it as clearly as he saw the ring on the chain around her neck. Not typical twenties style, but he knew what it meant, why it was there. More than anything, he wanted to reach out and touch her: to hold her and tell her everything was going to be alright. He would be lying, and she'd know it. There was no way out of this without someone getting hurt. Most likely him.

Sara picked up a beaded clutch purse from the dressing table. "I have to go. Mick'll be waiting."

Rip reached out a hand as she passed, brushing her fingers with his own. She froze, her hand hovering where he had caught it, where, if he stretched out, he could just reach her. Their fingers entangled briefly, then she was gone.

"Be careful," he murmured to the empty room.

XXXX

The speakeasy stank of smoke and sweat, cheap perfume and cheaper liquor. Beside her, Sara could almost feel the grin forming on Mick's face. This was his kind of place. She looked up at him and he grinned back nodding and waving a hand for her to lead the way. They picked their way down the wooden stairs one after the other, and Sara couldn't help but notice how the appreciative glances turning in her direction quickly turned away when they caught a glimpse of her companion. She smirked. Rip couldn't have managed _that_ quite so easily.

The stairs afforded them a mostly unobstructed view of the chamber below. By the time they reached the bar, both Mick and Sara were certain Leonard was not anywhere in the room. That was okay. They had expected as much. They knew who he was, here and always: Leonard Snart was a crook. He was a hero, sure; but first and foremost, he was a crook. And he would be wherever the money was. Sara caught Mick's eye and inclined her head to a shadowed doorway at the far end of the bar. He nodded.

"Hey, barkeep," Mick called, his gruff voice ringing out through the shrill jazz music. "My lady and I are looking to play some cards and we hear you got the sharpest tables. Care to set us up?"

"Pipe down, will ya," growled the bartender, wiping down an area in front of Mick that he'd passed over twice since they walked in the door. "This ain't some regular gin mill and the law knows it. There's two mulligans sittin' by the stairs think they ain't been spotted just waitin' to pinch the first sap to put some scratch on the table. Level with me here: we're talking high stakes only. You got the kale for that?"

Sara, who had been loitering nearby, watching and listening, wrapped an arm through Mick's, reached into his inner breast pocket and half removed a thick wad of cash. "I think we'll be peachy."

"Well ain't you a little smarty," nodded the bartender appreciatively. "You know you ain't the first swells I've heard use that jargon. You a friend of the ice man?"

Sara felt Mick shift at this. She pressed her hand down on his arm and smiled up at the bartender. "Is that what he's calling himself these days? It's been a while."

"More what everyone else calls him," shrugged the barkeep. "Cold as ice that one. One look in those eyes gives me chills for a week. You ain't a friend o' his you watch yourself in there. You are a friend o' his you watch yourself anyway."

"We'll bear that in mind," growled Mick, tipping his hat to the barman and letting Sara drag him off in the direction of the shadowed door. She wove and giggled and Mick played along. The last thing they needed trying to drag Leonard Snart out of an underground gambling den was the interference of coppers.

The door led to a corridor. The corridor led to another door. The second door led to a room. The smell of smoke still hung in the air, invading hair and clothes and lungs with every breath or movement. The rest of the malodorous symphony of the bar room faded away. The lighting in here was just bright enough to make out the cards in your hand, and maybe the face of your opponent, but the law would have a hard time describing the fleeting glimpses they might get. Sara sashayed around the tables, leaving Mick to stroll round in the opposite direction. They had him. There were only three tables occupied tonight and he was, of course, at the furthest. He had his back to them, but she knew him. She would know that irreverent slouch anywhere.

She circled round, closing in on him just as Mick did so from the other side. From her position, she could see his hand. Full house, aces and eights. He was motionless, like a statue carved in ice. She stepped closer and his head snapped round, the suddenness of the movement making her freeze. Her breath caught in her throat. It was really him. Alive. There was no mistaking that sharp silhouette.

"Leonard?" Sara heard her voice come out in a trembling whisper.

He was motionless again, eyes fixed on her. She walked round, further into his eye line. The eyes followed her movements. They scanned her up and down then settled on her face, scrutinising every detail.

"Gentlemen settle something for me," he drawled, everything but his mouth unmoving. "Have I had a little too much hooch tonight or did an angel just walk right out of my dreams to stand before me."

"You mean the doll in the white fringes?" Mick chipped in from his other side. "Yeah, she's real. And so am I."

Leonard turned his attention to the taller man standing beside him. He stood up and peered into his old partner's eyes. "I'd swear you're familiar, but sorry: can't place you. Her on the other hand..."

"Sara," said Mick gruffly. "Her name is Sara."

"I know," mused the crook, walking over to the assassin. "I just don't know how I know. Who are you to me? I see you in my dreams. Every night, you're there: a vision in white. Every night I hear your name: Sara. I hear my own voice saying it, time and time again. Repeating it like a mantra. Sara. Sara. Sara. Now here you are: flesh and blood. The hair's wrong and the outfit's different, but it's definitely you. But _who_ are you, Sara? What are you to _me_? Why are you buried so deep in my brain that even sleep can't wipe you out?"

"Come with us and you'll find out," rumbled Mick, one eye trained on the still speechless Sara.

Leonard studied Sara in silence for a moment more, then turned back to the table, moving some chips into the centre. "I call, gentlemen. Looks like I have to go see a man about a dog. Or a dame."

He followed them outside, his winnings safely tucked away, through the smoky speakeasy, up the rickety stairs and out into the starlit night, all without saying a word. Once there, he stopped. Sara looked at him, confused.

"Okay, I followed," he drawled. "Now we've got rid of those extra ears back there, talk. Why do I know you?"

"I could tell you but you wouldn't believe me," replied Sara, stepping back to where he stubbornly stood. "You have to let us _show_ you."

"I don't know who you think you're dealing with doll, but I don't _have_ to do anything," retorted Leonard, his eyes flashing like ice. "You might be the bee's knees wherever you flew in from, but this is my town you're messing in, so whatever caper you and the hard boiled fellow got going: spill now or scram! You ain't takin' _me_ for a ride."

Sara sidled closer. "You know me, Leonard. You know you can trust me. You know I don't want to hurt you. Just like you don't want to hurt me."

Leonard looked down at Sara's small, white hands, almost glowing in the moonlight, resting on his lapels. "You keep calling me that," he frowned. "That name does not mean to me what I think you think it means."

"It means you," said Sara, "It's who you are. Leonard Snart."

"Robber of ATM's," muttered Mick quietly in the background.

"Hero," added Sara, a little louder.

"Hero ain't on my résumé," he murmured, looking down at her with interest. Behind her, he heard the big man laugh.

"Well, I guess some things never change!" Mick commented with a snort.

"Interesting," murmured Leonard, switching his gaze to Mick. "She thinks I'm a hero. You don't. Which is it?"

"Oh you're a hero," affirmed Mick. "That much did change. Maybe it was always there. You just had to be your own hero first. Then Lisa's. Then mine. Then the world's. You just never could admit it. And you always were a sarcastic asshole."

"First a Sara, now a Lisa," Snart tipped his head, his attention riveted on Mick. "I'm not much of a ladies' man. Sure you got the right guy?"

"Lisa is your sister," Mick informed him, squaring his feet and folding his arms. "Your baby sister. When your dad started raising a hand to you, you just let him, you were convinced it was your fault. But when Lisa came along, you saw the truth. No real man raises a hand to a baby. You took care of her. Protected her. Raised her, even, once your mother passed. You kept her safe, or as safe as you could in the world your father dragged you both into. Now she's mourning you in a world those guys' grandkids'll be growing old in."

Snart looked back to Sara. "He been hittin' the hooch?"

"I know it doesn't make sense," she began. "I know you don't remember any of it, but you will. You have to. Once you're back on the Waverider, Gideon can help you get your memories back. All of them. Then you'll understand."

"Waverider," Leonard tried out the word, noting the familiar way it rolled off his tongue. "That some kind of boat?"

"It's a ship," corrected Sara, not entirely untruthfully. "Will you let us show it to you?"

Snart considered for a moment, turning his head to examine the side of a nearby building. "Docks ain't far. But the docks are a dangerous place at this time of night. _Believe_ me: I know. You never know just who's lurking round the next corner. Give me one good reason..."

Sara cut him off, pulling his face round and down to hers. It took a moment, balanced there on her tiptoes, one hand on his cheek, the other holding fast to his lapel, but his arms soon wrapped round her, pulling her close. One hand slid up to the back of her head. She may have kissed him, but she wasn't getting away from it until he let her. When he did pull back, he set Sara back down on her heels, detaching her hands and letting them fall.

"Let's say I'm curious," drawled Snart, his breathing more than a little affected and his eyes now glued to Sara's. "What assurances do I have that you ain't just gonna buy me a pair of cement boots and take me swimming?"

"With what?" Sara blinked innocently. "We're both completely unarmed. You can check."

She held up her hands and turned a full circle. Mick, who had turned away when she kissed Leonard, turned back and did likewise.

Snart looked them over, checked Mick's pockets and waistband, checked Sara's purse, then stood back. "Funny, but I get the feeling neither one of you needs weapons to be dangerous. The Sara in my dreams sure don't."

"Last I checked, neither did you," countered Sara. "And if you're so sure I'm the Sara in your dreams, don't you want to find out more?"

Again, Snart paused, looking aside and considering. "Fine," he said loudly. "Lead on, I'll follow."

The night air was cool, but Sara didn't feel it. Through the course of their journey, she had fallen behind and Leonard had moved forward, quizzing Mick about this childhood he was supposed to have had. She walked two paces behind the two rogues, her eyes flicking between the ground and Leonard's back. He was alive. It still hadn't sunk in. It still didn't seem real. He was alive. Really alive. And he remembered her. Not completely, but more than he remembered anyone else. Or anything else. She wondered if this was how Kendra felt when Carter showed up again. Of course, at least she had four thousand years of destiny to help her make her choice. Carter's mind had been gone too, and Kendra had been the one to restore it. Kendra and Vandal Savage, of course.

The Waverider came flickering into view and she almost walked into the suddenly stopped Leonard Snart. She forgot he wouldn't remember seeing the Waverider before. He had done almost exactly the same thing the first time round. They all had. The hatch lowered to grant them access and there was Rip, one hand on the edge of the hatch, watching her with an intensity that made her tremble. She realised the boys had started walking again and she was getting behind. She picked up the pace, following them up the walkway into the ship. Mick and Leonard kept walking, Mick's bass voice rumbling through lists of jobs and scores, and answering the odd question here and there. Sara stopped beside Rip. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes again. She reached out with her fingertips, hoping to tangle them with his. For the briefest of moments their hands touched, but he pulled away, turning away from her, hands in pockets, and stalking out of the hold.

Sara closed her eyes. She could feel the threat of tears prickle at them. She willed it away, setting her jaw and pushing down yet another range of feelings she wasn't ready to deal with yet. Rip had turned toward the bridge, whereas Mick had led Leonard in the opposite direction, heading through the corridors to the medbay and bypassing the most telling part of the timeship. Sara looked one way, then the other, then sighed. No good would come of following Rip right now. Neither of them, by the look of things, were in the right headspace to deal with anything the other might have to say. She turned and followed Mick and Leonard instead, catching up with them as they reached the doorway of the brightly lit room. Leonard was hesitating, his eyes darting from one futuristic appliance to the next.

"What the hell is this?" Snart murmured, half in awe of his new surroundings.

"Just take a seat and Gideon will help you remember," replied Mick, waving a hand at the medbay bed.

"I don't see no doc here," sneered Snart. "I ain't sittin' anywhere until I meet this guy, Gideon. Somebody plans to start messin' with my head, I wanna get a look at theirs first."

A holographic blue head descended from a projector in the ceiling. It was five times the size of a normal human head, utterly disembodied, and decidedly not male.

"Perhaps I can help dispel a few of your worries, Mister Snart," chimed Gideon's distinctly feminine voice. "I am Gideon. I am an artificially intelligent computerised consciousness responsible for the running of every electronic aspect of this ship. My duties include the fabrication of food, clothing, currency and any other useful items, the navigation and piloting of this ship, along with control of its defensive and offensive capabilities, and the efficient running of diagnostic tests and application of medication, first aid or surgical techniques as and when required within this medical bay. I am programmed to assist members of the Waverider's crew in whatever way possible."

"And I am a member of this _crew_?" Snart asked the giant blue head, still staring at it in shock.

"You were a member of this crew," Gideon corrected him. "However, after destroying the Oculus you were thrown through time itself and, as a result, are currently suffering one of the most severe cases of time drift that I have encountered. This has resulted in the loss of the memories your previous self, or selves, and the overlay of the memories of the person you have now become. You are, therefore, not currently a member of this crew. With time and the application of the new neural therapies Doctor Tyler, Professor Stein, Doctor Palmer and I have created, however, I am confident that we can return you to that position in full cognisance of the entirety of your travels through the timestream."

Snart looked round at Sara. "Why is it every time I get what seems to be an honest answer to a question, it just leaves me with _more_ questions?"

"Please," begged Sara, unsure how long she could keep her voice from betraying her, "just get in the chair and let her try. She knows what she's doing."

"She's a fancy light show," he pointed out.

"She's much more than that," replied Sara, daring to step a little closer. "Now please, get in the chair. Once you remember, you'll understand."

"Remember what?"

"Me," she fought to keep her voice steady. "And you. And me and you."

Snart held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. She could see the questions there. The hint of recognition. Then he turned, switching his gaze to the medbay chair with a blink. Sara felt herself shiver. She reached out a hand to the corridor wall. It felt like it was shaking too. Perhaps she was worse than she thought. She shook her head. No. She was an assassin. Trained not once but twice by Ras al Ghul. She did not let her emotions show themselves so easily. Except around Rip. She let her eyes float over to Leonard again and watched Mick help him into the chair. She had loved him, or had been at the start of loving him. They had been close. Friends even. They had shared stories, played cards, drank, fought, argued, taken turns at winding up their captain, so many things. So many memories. So why couldn't she find one where she had let him see her. Really see her. Maybe he hadn't needed to. Maybe he could see through the mask. Past the walls. Maybe she could see past his. She remembered the stories, letting her into his life a little at a time, but even then the mask never slipped. Neither had hers. Not until that last moment at the Oculus. When their eyes met and their walls crumbled, just for those few stolen seconds. Then he was gone and she was back on the ship, mourning him, along with everyone else, and rebuilding those walls brick by brick. Walls that had only grown higher when she found out about Laurel's death. Only two people had got past them since: her father, whom she could never have shut out no matter how hard she tried, and Rip. She backed away, her hand still on the wall. A sudden vibration dragged her thoughts back to the ship itself. That definitely had not been her or her imagination.

"Gideon, is something wrong?" Sara whispered, not wishing to alarm the men inside the room.

The disembodied voice sounded oddly tremulous in the shuddering hallway. "A sizeable group of gentlemen are currently surrounding the Waverider and firing primitive weapons at it. Shields are intact and will continue to be unaffected for quite some time, however the constant barrage of ammunition making contact is causing their presence to be felt throughout the outer portions of the vessel."

Inside the medbay, Snart gave a laugh. "I think you underestimate just how much ammunition my boys _have_. Primitive or not, a flint knife can take down a concrete wall if you keep at it long enough."

"Gideon, tell Captain Hunter he needs to get us out of here," ordered Sara, feeling a little more on solid ground now she had a crisis to deal with. "We'll deal with Snart once we're in the temporal zone."

She heard the clatter of Snart jumping off the medbay bed. "I ain't goin' anywhere in this bucket of bolts without some ans...!"

Sara didn't need to look into little room. The smack of Mick's fist making contact had been enough to explain the sudden end to Leonard's tirade.

"Gideon?"

"Captain Hunter had already given the order to cloak and take off, Sara," replied the AI, once the familiar shudder of the engines rolled through the floor. "He did, however, ask me to wait for a point at which the gentlemen in question were rearming. He thought it likely, given their positions surrounding the ship, that taking off during a burst of heavy fire from them may result in those shots reaching their companions attacking the opposite side of the Waverider, and possibly damaging them."

Sara turned that explanation round in her head a few times, eventually coming to the conclusion that standing round in a circle, guns firing inward, is not good for one's health if there is suddenly nothing in the middle of the circle to take the shots. She shrugged and turned to enter the medbay. Mick met her at the door. The look on his face made her stop.

"Mick?" Sara looked up at her friend with a frown. "What's wrong."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Blondie," he growled, staring at her through burning eyes. "That man in there might not know me from Adam, but he's still my best friend. The closest thing to a brother I'll ever have. You hurt him, you answer to me."

"Mick, I..."

"He knew you. Remembered you," Mick continued, his voice rumbling over her words like distant thunder. "You used that. I get why. You used any means to get him back here. It's what you're trained for. It's what you do. But if you're gonna mess him around while you fuss over Hunter like you did back at the ramp, you and I: we're gonna have a problem. You need to make up your mind, Canary. If you're planning on locking lips with him again, you make sure you ain't worried about what your ex thinks first."

"I'm not worried about what Rip thinks of me kissing Leonard," Sara frowned, blinking in confusion. "He doesn't even know..."

"You were so busy staring in his eyes, you missed the lipstick on his mouth," growled Mick, waving a hand at the unconscious man in the medbay. "Hunter didn't."

Sara stepped back, her eyes downcast. Unconsciously, her hand crept up to her lips. "Damn," she murmured, not quite quietly enough for Mick to miss.

"Why _are_ you so worried about what he thinks?" Mick pressed, refusing to back down. "I thought you two were over?"

"It's complicated," muttered Sara, feeling her hackles rise. "We are, but... I still care about him. I only kissed Leonard because I thought it might help him remember. I didn't mean to shove that in Rip's face. It's not fair on him."

"It's not _fair_ on Snart to mess with his feelings like he's some rare lab rat!" Mick retorted, the distant thunder growing nearer, louder. "You left him with the impression that whatever he feels for you is _mutual_. If it ain't the case, he has a right to know. And fast!"

"When he's back to himself, he won't even remember our conversation outside the bar," Sara shot back, carefully controlling the defensive instincts that were bubbling up inside her.

"He'll remember," boomed Mick, pointing at Leonard and turning a shade of puce Sara hadn't seen since the pre-Chronos days. "If what Gideon says is right, he'll remember _everything_! Every _lifetime_ he spent missing you! Every day he woke up _hoping_ he'd see you! Every night he _dreamed_ about you! _Everything_! Including that _kiss_!"


	70. A Time to Wait

"Oh, 'ello. The gang's all here, I see." The verbal smirk came from the direction of the quarantine cell. It's sliding wall had just opened at Rip's command and the captain leant against the wall nearby with a vague semblance of a smirk himself.

"Oh, they're not here for you, Mister Tol," Rip breezed, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He nodded his head in the direction of the figure on the bed. "They're here for him. They're here to watch a miracle happen. You're a man of many skills Mister Tol. I believe reclamation expert was amongst them."

Erren Tol sidled up to the clear wall. He watched a metal circlet descend on the head of the man in the medical bay chair. Blue light spilled out of the odd crown and spread across his head. For a moment it was as though the man's brain was on full view to the world, the flesh, blood and bone that encased it suddenly invisible. "You believe correct."

"Reclamation expert," hummed Rip, almost sounding bored with the whole, miraculous spectacle. "Isn't that just a fancy term for 'thief'?"

A dry chuckle emanated from the interior of the cell beside him. When he next spoke, Tol's voice was low and filled with pride. "Best damn thief in the galaxy."

The blue light receded from the man in the chair's head. The metal circlet removed itself and disappeared. The medical bay chair reset its position, and Leonard Snart lay back within it.

Rip grinned. "Not any more."

He closed the sliding wall.

XXXX

If there had been a clock in the room, Sara thought, one with a chime at least, it would have been striking midnight. Typical. Even after going through history's most extreme case of time drift, losing all - well, almost all - sense of who he was, and being knocked out to undergo twenty second century brain surgery, Leonard Snart still had the most idiotically over-dramatic sense of timing. She leant nearer as the eyelids fluttered again, hovering over his bedside like a mother hen. Behind her, Mick shifted. For a big man he could walk as quietly as a cat when he chose. It was a thief's talent, one he and Leonard shared. They shared so many things; had shared so many memories. Sara wondered why Mick wasn't closer; why he was holding back, letting her greet their long lost friend alone. Then it struck her: nobody knew Leonard better than Mick, except maybe Lisa, and nobody knew Mick better than Leonard. Time drift was a difficult thing to deal with in ordinary cases and there was no guarantee Gideon's treatment would have restored their friend fully. It is a terrifying thing to face losing the last person in this world who truly knows you. Twice.

Blue-grey eyes opened wide then scrunched shut against the onslaught of the medbay lights. A hand came up to shield them with a groan. At a muttered word from the woman leaning over him, they dimmed.

Sara watched the raised hand pinch at the bridge of his nose then fall, waiting as he shook his head and blinked a few times. When he finally focussed on her, she spoke. "Wanna dance, Leonard?"

The smooth skin of his forehead wrinkled, elegantly sloping eyebrows twitching towards each other in a momentary display of confusion then letting the sardonic mask fall back into place. "You go right ahead. I'll watch."

Sara smiled. Behind her she heard the sigh of air as Mick let out the breath he had been holding. Leonard Snart was back. Really back. She was glad. Glad for Leonard. Glad for Lisa. Glad for Mick. Glad, even, for herself. Her friend was alive and was back to his own self. No matter what else he could have been, he had been her friend; and no matter what else he might yet be, he would still be her friend, she hoped. But there was another friend here, and she knew better than to imagine Mick would show his true feelings if she were around. Mick still tried to convince everyone he didn't have feelings, including everyone who patently knew otherwise. She nodded to Leonard and stepped back, patting Mick on the shoulder.

"He's all yours," she told the cross-armed, stone-faced arsonist. "Go get him caught up."

"On everything?" Mick rumbled just as she reached the door.

Sara paused. "On your news," she replied thoughtfully. "And maybe some of Lisa's. Everyone else is looking forward to seeing him too. We want to tell him ourselves."

"We?" Leonard asked, turning his head to watch her.

"The crew," Sara smiled back. "Ray, Jax, Martin, Rip, me."

Leonard sat bolt upright. "What about Kendra and Carter? Where are they?"

Sara blinked and cast a glance at Mick to see him also looking at his friend as if he had sprouted hawk wings himself. She switched back to Leonard and found him swung round to look at her with something akin to terror. Her brows shot up and she hurried towards him. "No, no: they're fine. They just decided to give normal life a go after they finally got the chance to have one!"

"You killed Savage?" Leonard asked, still eyeing her askance.

"She killed him, I killed him, bird woman killed him, English killed him. Well, twisted the knife," Mick summarised.

"It's complicated," Sara explained, pulling a face halfway between a grin and a frown. "I'll let Mick fill you in on all the details and go find you something to eat. You've been out all day."

"Feels like a lot longer," drawled Leonard.

Sara grinned. "Yes, it does."

"There's a plate of lasagne in the fridge," ordered Mick. "Just get Gideon to heat it up."

"You cooked?" Leonard arched an eyebrow. "Damn, and I didn't get you anything."

"It's leftovers," muttered Mick.

As Sara slipped out of the door to head toward the kitchen she heard an amused drawl follow her into the corridor. "Funny: you always used to be top notch at cooking up _exactly_ what you needed."

XXXX

Sara's footsteps receded into silence. Leonard was aware his eyes were locked on the now empty doorway. He was even more aware that Mick was standing nearby, arms folded, watching him like the red light on a bomb. Waiting. "What are you waiting for, Mick? You heard the lady: Savage dead. Blanks to be filled in by you. Get to it!"

"Not much to tell, in the end," shrugged Mick, arms still folded across his broad chest. "Found some magic space rocks that made him a little bit mortal. Split into three teams, one for each rock, all in different years. Caught up with him in those years before he could use said rocks to blow up history. Took turns to kill him, at the same time, in three different eras."

Leonard frowned, swinging his gaze round from the door to his friend. "How can you kill someone at the same time in three different time periods?"

Mick shrugged. "Ask English. Or any of the rest of the nerds on this boat."

"Ship," Leonard corrected, rubbing the back of his head.

"Tub," Mick settled on, watching the thief with what could only be described as a thoughtful expression. "You good?"

"Only when I have to be," quipped Leonard, pressing both hands to his temples, his face contorting in a silent mask of pain.

"Hey, Smiley: what gives?" Mick barked at the ceiling. "You said he was fixed!"

"My apologies, Mister Rory," replied Gideon, blue lights scanning Leonard's cranium. "I meant that my treatment was complete. It appears that Mister Snart is now undergoing the delayed side effect of that treatment. This was to be expected, and I can administer pain relief should you wish it."

"Just tell me what the hell's going on, Gideon!" Leonard yelled through gritted teeth. "Then I'll tell you if I need a roofie!"

"The synaptic connections in your brain built up in layers as you passed through each era," began the AI. "Much like scar tissue in an epidermal wound, they prevented the tissue below from communicating with the world above. Each occasion of time drift acted as another wound in your cerebral cortex, mixing scar tissue with lower layers and allowing some communication of the deeper layers with your conscious, and subconscious, mind. Memory is a complex brain function, inter-linking aspects of one's personality with scents, sounds, words, images and so on in such a way that, while the most primal aspects of your personality remained intact, many of those dependent on your previous interactions with others faded. Some traits were dominant enough to be of such use to you in each time period situation that they were never scarred over entirely. You remained an excellent tactician, liar, cynic and, most notably, thief in every era. You were also, to at least one person in every incarnation of yourself, a hero."

"So I'm an asshole, but one of the good ones," sniped Snart, grimacing at another wave of pain. "How does that explain the migraine from hell here?"

"As the treatments used to allow your original memories to resurface required the reconnection of said layer of cells to your conscious mind, I found it necessary to rearrange the newer neuronal cells into their appropriate layers. With the catalysis of synaptic formation linking the lowest of these layers to the surface, the process will now continue to link the upper layers. The cells began this process while you were still unconscious. They will continue until your memory is complete. This should not take more than approximately twenty five hours as the links currently being formed are those of the time spent in London at the end of the sixteenth century. Your memories are being reconnected in chronological order at a rate of approximately one year per hour."

"If I gotta go through another day of _this_ you can knock me out now, Gideon!" Snart groaned. A thought shouted through the fog of pain and caught his attention. "Wait: how long? You're telling me I was gone for twenty five _years_? How the hell am I not an old man already?"

"To be precise, Mister Snart," smiled Gideon, "by the time you jumped out of your Chicago time period, you would have endured a total of one billion, seventy three million, seven hundred and forty one thousand, eight hundred and twenty three seconds in free-fall through the time stream, punctuated with time jumps at exponentially increasing intervals. This is equivalent to approximately thirty four years, seventeen days, thirteen hours, thirty seven minutes and three seconds, not accounting for leap years. As long as you are merged with the timestream, it appears, ageing is prevented..."

Leonard's eyebrows had risen at Gideon's version of an approximation, but now he homed in on one key word. " _Are_? You mean I'm still merged with the damn thing?"

"Please do not worry, Mister Snart," conciliated the disembodied voice of the AI. "I calculate that we interrupted your time in Chicago with between six and seven years left in your time there. This should be sufficient time to investigate whether or not the timestream still has a hold on you, having been removed forcibly from it, and indeed whether or not the ageing process restarts."

"So I could stay this pretty forever, you mean?" Leonard growled, wincing at another wave of pain. "Fine. On that high note, then, Gideon: knock me the hell out!"

The fluid channelled into Leonard Snart's arm through a cannula changed from a clear, colourless solution to a faintly orange one. It filtered into his bloodstream, taking all of ten seconds to wrap him in the fluffy pink blankets of drug-induced oblivion. The last thing he heard before the wave of unconsciousness overcame him was Mick, still standing nearby.

"I'll be here when you wake up, boss."

XXXX

The smell of lasagne wafted temptingly through the ship. Somewhere in the distance, as she placed the hot plate carefully on a tray, Sara heard a cry of "And now I'm hungry!" from Ray. She smiled. Things were getting back to normal. Well, as normal as they ever could be on this ship. Leonard was back. The procedure had worked. He had woken up himself. He remembered them. A little more worried about Kendra and Carter than she'd expected, but they _had_ been on the team when he disappeared. And in peril. Things were working out. He'd need what? A few days to get over the time drift surgery? A couple of trips to see Lisa and maybe the Hawks too just to let them know he was back? Then it was all just a matter of getting used to the new faces and catching up on the latest threats, bad guys and intrigues. Easy, right?

She lifted the tray and turned. Rip was standing by the door.

"I take it Mister Snart is awake and feeling himself, then," deduced the captain, nodding at the tray in Sara's hands.

"Looks like," she replied, a tight smile flashing across her face. "Thank you."

"You did the hard work," shrugged Rip, glancing down. "You and Mister Rory, of course. And Gideon. Of course."

"Of course," Sara echoed, stepping lightly round him, tray in hand. "I'd better..."

"Apologies for interrupting, Sara," broke in Gideon, "but I'm afraid I have had to sedate Mister Snart until his memories are fully reintegrated."

Sara's shoulder's dropped. "Great! You could have warned me before I warmed this up, Gideon! You can't re-heat real food like this!"

"Sorry, Sara," apologised Gideon, almost sounding genuine. "If you bring it to the medical bay anyway, I can hold it in stasis until Mister Snart is ready for it. It will neither cool down nor dry up, I can assure you."

"She's quite right: the stasis field will do the trick," nodded Rip, suddenly interested in his hands. "I remember once, Miranda used it on an entire three course meal. Anniversary. Soup was still hot, ice cream was still frozen, goose wasn't overcooked and the champagne hadn't lost a single bubble."

"Goose?" Sara raised an eyebrow.

Rip laughed. "Private joke. She warned me what would happen if I was late for dinner. I didn't think she meant literally!"

Sara smiled. "I wish I'd met her. I think I'd have liked her."

"I think you two would have got on like a house on fire," laughed Rip, finally raising his head to focus on something far off down the corridor. "Quite possible the kind that sets a city burning! If our places had been reversed, and _she_ had been the Time Master who recruited you to save Jonas and me, _nothing_ would have been able to stand in your way!"

"Or she might have failed, over and over again, just like you did," said Sara, gently, "and she might not have been able to make the choice you did to stop Savage and the Time Masters and save the world."

"Yes, she would," he sighed. "Miranda was so much smarter than me, stronger than me, _better_ than me! She wouldn't stop! She'd save the world, the universe and her team - all of them - and _still_ find a way to save her family."

Sara paused, the smile fading from her face. This was a conversation they'd had many times before, from both sides of the coin, and she knew what had brought it to his mind. Would Miranda have insisted on blaming herself this way? "Rip..."

"You should go," he told her, turning away, into the kitchen. "Get that tray to the stasis field in the medical bay before it cools down."

XXXX

Leonard Snart awoke, felt the knowledge of a quarter of a century's worth of memories flood through his brain, and sat up. Was this what it felt like to have your heart break? He thought he had felt it when Chronos turned out to be his oldest friend. He was wrong. Was this what Hunter went through? Maybe the guy wasn't quite such an asshole as all that then.

"What gives?"

In the almost darkness of the medical bay's night settings, the barer of the voice was all but invisible. The stentorian bark of a question was unmistakable, though. Leonard's head flicked round to where Mick was reclining in the other chair.

"Mick?" Leonard asked anyway. Right now, he needed to be sure of a few things. Mick was one of them.

"Gideon?" Mick groaned in reply, pushing himself up on his elbows as the lights slowly rose. When it didn't seem like he was going to do it himself, Gideon also moved the reclining chair from a sleeping to a sitting position. Nearby, Leonard's chair did likewise. Mick rubbed his eyes and looked at his old friend. "You hungry?"

Leonard was still looking around, his gaze as unfocussed as it had been in the darkness. A new kind of pain contorted his features this time. "I had a son. I remember him. I _remember_ my wife. I had a _wife_! We had a _son_!"

Mick took this news in slowly. The wife they had known about. He had seen the boy on the farm too. He hadn't expected him to be Snart's son. "Hmm," he rumbled, taking the time to put together something resembling the right thing to say. What could he say? "What was he like?"

Snart frowned. "He had my eyes, and his mother's smile. He was a good kid. Hard worker. Smart. Sarah was teaching him to work the farm. Teaching both of us, really. I was teaching him to read and write. And numbers. I taught him his numbers. He could take the average price of cattle and tell me what we'd get for a herd of ten by the time he was five. He helped birth his first calf when he was four. Small hands. He named it Cloud. It had one big patch of white on its back, like a cloud."

"You were only there for eight and a half years," murmured Mick, once again watching this apparent stranger inhabiting his friend's body. "According to Gideon you were only married for the last four of 'em!"

"Difficult times," drawled Leonard, studying the ring finger of his left hand. "There was a war on. Besides: I'd have married her sooner but her husband wouldn't have liked it. He thought the kid was his right up to the day he died."

"D'you kill him?"

"Nope," sighed Leonard. "She did. Not that we told anyone that, of course. We were running. The war was gettin' closer. We'd been smuggling slaves across the border for years and now it was time to go. Old Man Sampson wasn't having any of it, though. He was as bad as they come. Owned a dozen or more slaves to work his farm. Beat them when they didn't. Beat them when the crops failed. Beat them if it rained too much. Beat them if it rained too little. Beat his wife too. Tried to beat me. Once. They took me in when I found myself somewhere near their land, dying of thirst and dressed in rags, leaning on my sword just to stay upright. She nursed me back to life, he worked me half to death. Then the other shoe dropped and war broke out. We were right on the border, but far enough from any major towns that we didn't get much trouble. Then the first escaped slave came by. I found him in a ditch, squeezing water out of mud. I was just another worker at that point, not a slave, but only because my skin happened to be lighter than theirs. That was the way Sampson saw it, anyhow. I helped that man. I gave him water. I gave him food. I smuggled him over the border in the dead of night. Then another one turned up. Then another. I enlisted the other slaves on the farm to help. Some of them wanted to escape. I said that would only get us noticed. We were a stepping stone. The bridge to the north. Without us, so many others might be doomed to worse than an occasional beating. Then Sarah found out. I thought we were done for. I thought she'd tell that brute of a husband of hers everything, just because she was so afraid of him. But I was wrong. She wasn't afraid. She was waiting. She wanted a way out just as much as any of us. So we had ourselves a little silent revolution. We got organised. And Sarah and I: well, we got closer. The boy was the result of that. Then the war got close and we took our chance. We ran. Sampson followed. He finally tried to raise a hand to _me_. He should have tried at the start, when I was still weak. I floored him with one punch. I thought he was down, but he wasn't quite out. He went for his gun. Sarah beat him to it. She'd been raised a farm girl. She knew her guns. We ran. Crossed the border that night. Everybody that ran with us spread out, separated, but we stayed together. In each town we stayed in, we lived like man and wife. Then, when the war was done, we went back. Put the farm back together. Worked it ourselves. Made it legal. Gave the boy my name. The name I went by then, anyway."

"Which was?" Mick prompted.

"Wall," purred Leonard, casting a warning glance at Mick that froze the grin forming on the other man's face. "William Wall. I'd been William in French or English for the last four jumps. The only two surnames I'd had were Sly and Wall, and I was dying of thirst when I had to pick one."

"So your son's called?"

"Lucas," murmured Leonard, dropping his head back onto the chair. "Lucas Wall. Maybe I should have let him keep the Sampson."

Mick sat up, eyes narrowing. "Lucas? Really?"

"What?"

"And his original surname was Sampson?"

"Mick?"

"And you didn't have a clue who you were at the time?"

"What about it, Mick?"

"Lewis, Leonard, Lisa... Lucas," grinned Mick. "L. S."

"What's your point?"

Mick laughed a deep, rolling belly laugh that bounced off the walls. "Guess we've found one Snart trait too deep in to be got by time drift!"


	71. A Time to Let Go

Rip dropped his head back against the wall. He had been sitting with his back to it, opposite the bench of the brig, for hours. It wasn't exactly necessary to constantly watch over their prisoner in the main brig. Kate Hoban had no access to any systems that Rip might have used to escape had their positions been reversed. It was quite simply the fact that there seemed to be a fatal flaw somewhere in the mechanism of the room that meant anyone incarcerated within somehow managed to escape its clutches. It helped that it was also one way to avoid Sara and Snart.

"Bored yet?" Hoban trilled, the amusement still obvious in her voice. It worried Rip. Certainly, he thought, her confidence could merely be a facade designed with the sole purpose of disconcerting him. If it was, it was working. Both of their prisoners - the teasing, laughing Hoban and the laconic, smirking Tol - had far more confidence in their allies than he felt comfortable with. Both had been with them now for far longer than any other captured enemy, even if Tol had been unconscious for most of his time with them.

"You could always brighten my day by giving me a few names," he suggested, looking up at the ceiling with indifferent ennui. "You seem so eager for me to find out my betrayer, or betrayers: why not help the matter along?"

"Ah, but then I wouldn't have the joy of seeing the look on your face when you work it out!" Hoban chortled back, eyes flashing with mad glee. "You: the traitor; the man who derided and destroyed all he had pledged his life to." She pushed herself up off the bench and crossed the space to the glass wall in a few long strides, stopping at the very edge of the wall to peer down at the source of her ire and abhorrence with venom in her eyes. "You have no idea how much I long to see you _crumble_ the day you find out the truth!"

Rip snorted a derisive little laugh. Him? Crumble? He had truly crumbled once, just once, in his eventful life. At the time, he had been cradling his wife and son's dead bodies in his arms. Did she really think anything she could do to him - any pain she or her comrades could bring about - could be worse than that? He had endured more than he had ever thought possible. He had lost his family again and again. He had lost himself and been tortured into near madness, enough to have a lasting effect on him, yet he would have gone through that hell ten times over and more if it would have brought back Miranda and Jonas even now. He had been betrayed by his mentor, and had torn apart the organisation that had taken him out of his time and raised him to trust only them. He had sanctioned the destruction of the Vanishing Point, knowing full well that it meant the probably deaths of many he had at least worked with, if not shared classes or even his youth with. He had thrown himself into the heart of a sun, only to be saved at the last by the memory of those he was so eager to join in death. He had opened his heart again, to Sara this time, only to have to give her up. He had searched the length and breadth of time for the man he had to give her up for. What else was there left? He pushed himself to his feet and met her gaze on a level, leaning close to the glass. "Good luck with that."

A smile slid across Kate Hoban's face as he turned to go. She waited until his hand reached for the access panel of the door. "She said you'd say that."

XXXX

When Rip marched into the kitchen, mind elsewhere and eyes unseeing as shaking hands poured a much needed mug of coffee, the table in the dining area was already occupied. It was occupied, he belatedly noticed, by Sara and by Ray. He turned to go, a muttered apology stammering from his lips, but Ray called him back. The pause in his movements was enough for Sara to add her voice, and that was a command he knew he could not ignore. Rip turned and took his place at the table, wrapping his hands around the mug in the hope that its warmth would calm the tremors of fury rushing through his blood.

"Mick says Snart's back to his old self," grinned the man whose middle name really should have been 'of sunshine'. "Isn't that great? That gang's all back together again! He says he wants to go see Lisa first, then Kendra and Carter. Never really thought he liked them, but I guess..."

"I'm sure it will make no difference to our current situation to take some time out in Mister Snart's original time and place," interrupted Rip, watching the ripples wash across his coffee mug. "Indeed if Gideon believes him fit to travel, I see no reason not to leave for twenty sixteen, or seventeen if he prefers, immediately."

"Mick's been catching him up on the main news," said Sara, the calm clarity of the assassin audible in her voice. "Better make it twenty seventeen, unless you want to let them take Lisa on a family outing to a bookmaker."

Rip's eyes flickered, but he didn't look up. "All the news?"

"Just the general stuff," replied the assassin. "I warned him off telling everyone's personal news. I think Martin's down with him just now, introducing Amaya and Matthew."

"No Jax?" A slight frown danced across Rip's brows and vanished.

"I think Jesse's showing him something in the observatory," supplied Ray, the permanent grin broadening a little.

"The observatory?" This time the frown stayed a little longer. "We're in the temporal zone: there's nothing to see!"

"Oh, I don't know," breezed Sara, the memory of certain other times spent in the observatory - the one room on the ship with a door that could not only be locked but also weighted down with a chair or more - that had nothing to do with the stars. "Her etchings maybe..."

Ray chuckled softly and Rip's frown deepened, then disappeared into his hairline as his eyebrows rose. "Oh. And how long exactly has that..."

"Long enough for Mick to threaten him with grievous bodily harm if he screws up," laughed Ray.

"Poor man!" Rip opined, remembering receiving a similar warning himself. In view of the last few weeks, he was still wondering why he nevertheless had all his limbs.

"Jax is one of the good ones," shrugged Sara. "He won't screw up."

"He certainly is the best of us," agreed Rip, watching another ring of ripples reach for the edge of his cooling mug.

"We ought to tell him soon," murmured Sara, watching Rip and ignoring the slight diminishing of Ray's smile.

"Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about Jax now?" Rip sighed, finally sipping the coffee. The other shoe had dropped. He had been expecting it, but it was still a painful relief when it finally fell.

Sara cast a glance over at Ray. The inventor nodded, swallowed the last remnants of his own mug, and stood up.

"I'm due downstairs myself," he said, tucking his chair back neatly under the table. "Stuff Mick and I want to fill him in on. I'll see you two down there."

Rip waited in silence, slowly sipping his coffee, until Ray's footsteps had finally faded away down the corridor. "What are we going to tell him?"

Sara leant back and looked at him. "The truth."

"There's rather a lot of that," he nodded, lowering the mug carefully. "Where do you want to start?"

This, it seemed, was a more difficult question to answer. To begin at the end and work backwards felt an odd and awkward mode of storytelling. To begin at the start, the start of such a long and winding road as they had travelled together, might feel like avoiding the point, or building up to an anticlimactic finale. To dash about from point to point and place to place, filling in blanks here and there, hither and thither, seemed illogical and longwinded.

"With the bare bones," Sara answered eventually. "After he 'died', we got together. When we found out he was alive, we split up. Let him take the lead from there."

"As you wish," nodded Rip, relaxing into submissive acquiescence. "When?"

Again, Sara paused, considering. "No time like the present, I guess."

Rip nodded once more, pushing the mug away from him and standing up. "As you wish," he repeated quietly.

XXXX

Snart was not in a good mood when they arrived. Whatever news Ray and Mick had imparted had not gone down well, and the two had departed the room on Rip and Sara's entrance so fast the word 'fled' intruded into Rip's wary mind. He looked at Snart and his eyes narrowed. What had they let slip?

"Maybe we should come back later," he suggested, watching the pacing man like a pacing tiger. "Let you get some rest."

Snart stopped pacing and turned the full force of his ice cold glare on Rip. Rip froze. His jaw tightened. Internal alarm bells were screaming at him.

"Give us the room," Sara murmured, narrowed eyes watching the alert figure of Leonard Snart.

"Sara," murmured Rip, turning his back on Snart and reaching for Sara's wrist. "Are you sure..."

"I'm sure," she replied calmly, keeping her steady gaze fixed on the crook.

The movement had been a small one. Tiny. Infinitesimally small. Anyone else would have missed it. He hadn't. It wasn't the possessive grasp of the Time Master that rattled him. He expected something like that from Hunter. It had fuelled his dislike of the man from day one: the way he expected people to do his bidding. It had only gotten worse when he noticed that what to anyone else in their crew might be a command or an order, to Sara was a request; and what to the rest of them became a request, to Sara became a query. That was Hunter, though. What tipped him off was Sara. Hunter's hand had caught her low on her wrist: an easy grasp to shake off. She hadn't. Still, that could mean nothing. What she _had_ done, so rapidly and easily Snart was sure she didn't even realise it, was curl her fingers up to meet the Captain's. When his eyes flicked up to meet hers again, they were narrowed. Cold.

"You two? Really?" Snart spat, ignoring the surge of nausea spinning through his stomach. "How long was I gone? Did you even bother looking for me? Or was it just some unhappy coincidence your new-found revels brought you to my little temporal doorstep?"

"We thought you were dead," whispered Sara, aware that Rip's grip on her wrist, instead of fading, had strengthened. She didn't dare look at him. She didn't dare take her eyes off Leonard. She knew full well how much this had to hurt him. And Leonard Snart could be dangerous to people who had hurt him. "We didn't know."

"Didn't take you long to move on though, did it?" Snart growled. "I wonder, _Rip_ , who made the first move? Did you wait until after my funeral or do you prefer to manipulate people when they're at their _most_ vulnerable."

The hand on her wrist tightened further.

"And you, Sara," and the way he said her name now was like a cobra getting ready to strike. "I really thought you had more sense than to fall for this... jackass."

"Guess I must have a type," she shot back. She needed her hand back if Leonard made a move. No, that wasn't true. She wanted her hand back. She wanted Rip gone. Out of the line of fire. She knew he knew that. She also knew why he was still there. Silent. Unmoving. Holding on to her like a drowning man holds on to a reed. She and Leonard were not the only people on board with anger management issues. Since Nanda Parbat, she had gotten a handle on hers. Rip hadn't had that luxury.

And Leonard Snart was pushing way too many buttons.

"Well, I knew you liked bad boys, and girls, but there was me thinking you didn't like anyone pulling _your_ strings either," Snart purred. "Yet here you are, screwing the puppet master! He's done nothing but lie and manipulate since the day he met us. Careful Sara. Last time the bad guys needed to pull _his_ strings it was his wife and kid that wound up dead! Or haven't you two got that far yet?"

She sucked in a breath as pain blossomed in her wrist. That was too far. She could hear Rip's breath behind her ear. Hear him trying to control it. The control was fading.

"Gideon, can you please knock out our guest," Sara asked the room in general. "Before I do."

"With pleasure, Sara," chimed the clipped tones of the AI. Sara was sure she could detect a hint of malice in the computer's allegedly emotionless voice.

Leonard Snart sank to the ground, sedated to the level of utterly unconscious. Slowly the pressure on Sara's wrist lessened. She knew what she did next would make a difference. Maybe not to Snart, but to Rip. To kiss him right now, no matter how much she wanted to, when he knew the dilemma that was still raging in her head and in her heart, would be unfair. To leave his side to check on the man who, lashing out like a wounded animal, had cut him so very deeply, would be equally heartless. She felt his hand drop away from hers, and her heart sank at the lack of contact. She flung her hand out to him, catching the receding hand and pulling him back to her side, turning to wrap her arms around him. His arms came up, hesitant and unsure, and enveloped her. She held him close, burying her head in his shoulder, and he clung to her. There was an aching need in that embrace that drew her thoughts back to one so very long ago. The first they had shared. Back when the only thoughts they had were for the chasms of grief opening up below them both, and the one spark of light in the darkness around them. The one person they knew understood their pain. Each other.

They still understood.

They understood so much more now, though.

Sara felt Rip's head lift from her shoulder, his arms release her, and one hand tangle with her hair. His lips moved closer to her ear and she shivered as he pressed a kiss to the side of her head.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice ragged. "I do believe it would be of benefit to no one if I were here when Mister Snart next wakes up. I shall inform the others of his condition then stay out of his way. At least until he has... Until we have _both_ calmed down."

Only then did she dare meet his eyes. Eyes she had seen a thousand times, but never quite like this. She thought she had seen every emotion those eyes could show. Anger, pain, pride, frustration - quite often at his crew, guilt, hopelessness, disgust, despair, and behind it all a deep, deep sadness. But also acceptance, peace, joy, surprise, happiness, desire, friendship... love. What was this one? She searched his eyes, hunting for clues to the cacophony of questions twisting through her mind.

Too soon he was gone, disappearing around the doorway like a dream after waking, always just out of reach. She needed space to think, she knew that, but she desperately wanted to talk to him about it. When things had first begun to blur the line between friendship and, well, more than that, it had been about comfort. The undeniable comfort of knowing you are not alone. They had circled round each other, growing ever closer without realising it, until they were almost extensions of each other. Then when they had realised it - realised that nobody in the world, in the universe, in all of time and space perhaps, knew them as clearly and fully as the person standing before them - that was the night they had crossed that line. The night she had found herself clinging to him, and he to her, as if to let go would bring the world crashing down around them. She hadn't meant to end up wrapped in his arms. She had meant to keep him at arms length. She had meant to let the gentle music wash away the pain for a few minutes. Meant to let herself relax into something she was only just beginning to let herself enjoy. To let her focus shift from her problems to her movements. Perhaps she should have focussed on them more. Instead she had ended up focussed on him. On his eyes. How long she had held that gaze she wasn't sure. She had lost herself in that moment. Hadn't even realised they had moved so close together, until the music stopped. She had seen something new in his eyes when he realised their proximity then too. Relief. Loneliness. Fear. A kaleidoscope of emotions she was certain were mirrored in her own. And questions. So many questions. She had silenced them all in a heartbeat, pulling his head down and catching his lips with her own. There had been no thought for tomorrow, or for yesterday, in that kiss. There had only been the present. A present where Miranda and Jonas were gone. Where Leonard and Laurel were gone. Where the only other person who understood her pain was right there and she needed him. Just as he needed her.

Somewhere, over the next six months, as one isolated kiss was followed by another, then another until eventually she found herself waking up next to him every morning, the need had changed. She still needed him. But why?

They had talked about love. It had occasionally come up. In her case, too late. Their feelings for each other had barely been spoken of, but what they had said was real. Somewhere, long ago, when kisses became more frequent, and occasionally more than just kisses, they had agreed that whatever this was between them, it was purely physical. A coping mechanism. But was it? It might have been then, but it wasn't now. It hadn't been for a long time. Had it ever, really? When Rip had first told her that she was more than that, that he was falling for her, she hadn't said it back. When he said he loved her, she had missed every chance to echo his words. Why? She did. She had known she did. She had felt herself falling even before he admitted the same. She had held back her emotions until the day she thought she had lost him, then, almost as soon as the words left her lips, everything had changed. She looked back at the unconscious form of the man she had loved and lost. Here was another man she had refused to love until it was too late. But it hadn't been too late. All the time he had been out there, waiting for them to find him, holding on to their memories like a drowning man clutching at straws. Had she moved on too soon? Had she given up hope, when hope was there to be found if she'd only looked? Had she buried herself so much in her own pain, and then in Rip, that she had missed the signs he might have left for them? Had she failed him?

"Gideon," she said, her gaze resting pensively on the sleeping figure, "can you set up a force field or something so that Leonard doesn't decide to leave the medbay before we think he should, please?"

"I am unable to divide the medical bay into parts, Sara," replied Gideon. "I can control both the door and the level of Mister Snart's sedatives. This should be enough to ensure that he remains within the medical bay, and that he does not pose a threat to himself or any member of the crew whilst doing so."

"Good enough," Sara nodded. She paused and thought for a moment. She knew Leonard. She knew his ability when it came to breaking out of places. "Gideon, if he steps over the mid-line of the medbay, towards to door, or if he goes anywhere near the walls or any of your equipment bar the bed, knock him out."

"This may increase the level of sedatives in Mister Snart's blood to an unsafe level," warned the AI. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

"If he has the chance to disable you, Gideon, he will," Sara explained. "Make sure you explain the matter to him clearly when he wakes up. Oh, and if you can knock him out without using sedatives, that would help."

"I can administer a small electric shock should his skin come into contact with the metal of the walls or floor," suggested Gideon. "I can monitor Mister Snart's vitals to ensure this does not adversely affect him more than is necessary. I shall also endeavour to ensure he fully comprehends the consequences of his actions."

"Good," Sara nodded again, more firmly. "Let me know when he's awake, and calm."

XXXX

When Snart came round, Sara was already back, sitting, with her back to the wall opposite, shuffling cards. She paused her movements long enough to waggle the pack meaningfully at him and raise her eyebrows. He sat up and nodded, waiting in apprehensive attention as she dealt the cards onto two neat piles and passed one across to him. He picked it up, scooted backwards to lean against the wall facing her, and fanned out the cards in his hand. At a nod of assent from him, she drew her first card.

"Are you gonna tell me or do I have to keep guessing?" Snart drawled, peering down at his own hand after a few more cards had been drawn and discarded.

"I will answer any civil questions, asked in a civil manner," replied Sara, one eye on her own cards, the other on his hands. Gideon had taken it upon herself to act as arbitrator, but Sara had yet to see proof the AI was better at spotting Snart cheat than she was. So far he seemed to be behaving himself. "That is, if I think it is any of your business."

"I'm not much of a good civilian," he began.

"Liar," she cut in, picking up a card.

"Only when it suits me," he purred, doing the same. "Fine, I'll be good. I promise to ask nicely, and accept that you might not want to answer some things."

"Then ask away," Sara offered, looking up fully and meeting his gaze. "I won't lie. Not even if I know it'll hurt you."

"Nobody else bothers, why should you?" Snart muttered, laying down the cards, face down of course, and matching her steady gaze. "Are you sleeping with him?"

"I was," she replied with a tip of her head.

"Not any more?"

"No."

"When did it end?"

"When we found out you were alive."

That made him pause for a moment. Just a moment. "Who ended it?"

"He did."

"How did _you_ feel about that?"

Sara took her turn with the cards and placed them down beside her. Also face down, of course. She folded her arms and raised her eyes to meet Snart's. "Confused. And relieved."

"Why confused?"

"I didn't know how to feel. About him. About you."

"Why relieved?"

"He took the decision out of my hands."

"Would you still be with him now if he hadn't?"

"I don't know."

His eyes dropped, his jaw tightened. When he looked up, his gaze was a little harder. A little colder. "How long did it last?"

"Nearly six months," Sara said softly.

Leonard's brows drew together momentarily. "How long have I been _gone_?"

"Nearly nine months for them. Closer to a year for me," she answered, watching his reaction closely. His brows flashed up for a moment, then the expression was gone. 

"Who made the very first move?"

"I guess I did."

"You guess?"

"I kissed him."

"You kissed _me_. Wasn't the first move."

"We were friends. We got close. I needed him. He was there. I kissed him. First move."

"You weren't exactly friends before. Something. Colleagues, maybe. Not friends. What changed."

"Laurel died."

This time she heard the intake of breath. A sharp hiss that said he understood the pain that must have caused her. That much, at least, he understood.

"Did you save her?"

"No."

"How many times did you try?"

"None."

Leonard's eyes flicked up and caught Sara's steady blue gaze. There was a reason their game wasn't poker. He read nothing in her face. Her entire body was calm and emotionless. Her eyes were as steady and changeless as a cloudless sky. The assassin was looking back at him through them.

"Why?" Snart asked, steering away from the list of questions that had burned themselves into his mind, but he was curious.

"Rip said it couldn't be done."

"And you believed him."

"Yes."

"Again: why?"

"I had my reasons."

His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, then he nodded. "How did the friendship start?"

"I ran out of vodka."

He tipped his head to one side and pulled a face.

"I don't deal well with emotions I can't control," she deadpanned.

"Who does?"

"I couldn't sleep. All I could think about was her, and you. Especially you, that night. I needed a drink. I didn't have any left so I went looking. He found me. He had Scotch. We drank. We talked. A little."

"And then?"

"A little became a lot."

"Just talked?"

"And drank."

"How did that turn into..." Leonard shrugged his shoulders and waved a hand expansively. "Whatever it turned into?"

"I kissed him. He kissed me back."

"That hardly covers it."

"We'd been getting closer for a while, as friends. I crossed the line and we started getting even closer, first as friends, then as more than that."

"Again..."

"It's all you're getting," she cut in, her eyes turning colder. "You died. I mourned you. I moved on."

"And now you hate me for coming back from the dead and screwing it all up," added Leonard, all thought of the card game gone.

"A little, yes. I'm glad you're alive. I hope we can get back to being friends. I'd go through it all again to save you. But there is a tiny part of me that hates you both right now."

"Both?"

"As soon as Rip knew you were alive, he ended it with me," Sara said flatly, cold, hard anger burning in the pit of her stomach. "He knew I felt cheated out of finding out if you and I could have worked, so he backed off. He gave me my freedom to choose. To find out, if I wanted to, if there was still anything between us. I understand why he did it. When you love something you let it go and all that noble crap. But here's the thing: what if the love you push away because you're 'letting it go' doesn't really know if you want it back? How am I supposed to know if he's pushing me away because he loves me, or because he doesn't feel the same way and he genuinely thinks I can do better?"

"So. You love him then."

Sara heard the slight sigh in his voice. It had very definitely been a statement, not a question, but she answered it anyway. "Yes, I do."

"And me?"

"In a way."

"What way?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"Okay."

They stared at each other across the medbay floor, she cross legged, arms folded and resting on her knees, he with one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee, his wrist resting on it.

"Just out of interest," mused the crook, picking up his cards again and scrutinising them carefully. "He any good?"

Sara picked up her cards and raised an eyebrow at him. "You planning on stealing him away from me?"

"I like to _know_ my competition," shrugged Snart, smirking. "Their strengths. Their weaknesses. But hey, now that you mention it..."

"You're not his type," she smirked back. "Now take your turn and don't think I'm not watching."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, selecting a solitary card from the waiting deck.


	72. A Time to Steal

Rip looked up from the repairs to see Leonard standing over him. "What can I do for you, Mister Snart? I believe Miss Lance has already answered all your questions. At least, that's what she _said_ she would do before your sojourn in the medical bay was over."

"Sara," Snart correct him, lowering himself to the ground and propping his back against the engine Hunter was working on. "And yes, _she's_ answered me. We've had a lot of nice long chats these past few days. But it takes two to tango and believe me, I know there are always two sides to every story. I've heard hers. Now I want to hear yours."

"And what _exactly_ will that achieve?" Hunter retorted brusquely, returning his gaze to the task in hand. "My side of the story, my feelings, are irrelevant. Sara is the one with the choice, not you."

Snart tipped his head in acknowledgement of this. "True, but it doesn't mean I don't have a choice of my own. Like whether or not I have to beat you up for stealing my girl."

"She was never 'your girl', Mister Snart," growled Hunter. "She's her own woman, and she knows her own mind."

"A mind you've never tried to manipulate?"

"Not recently."

"Not a good answer."

"It's an honest one," Hunter snapped. "You'd rather I lied?"

"No," admitted Snart, tipping his head briefly to the side.

The two men drifted into silence, broken only by the sounds of Hunter's tools as he continued with the repairs. Snart sat, staring pensively at the wall opposite.

"If you're planning on asking me anything else, do you think you could hurry it up?" Hunter broke in, eventually, not taking his eyes off his work. "I'd like to finish this in peace."

"Well if you insist," shrugged Snart. "Who made the first move?"

"I did."

"How?" Snart enunciated, every letter ringing crystal clear amidst the hum of the engines.

"There was a plan," sighed Hunter, pushing himself away from the repairs and sitting up to stare at the wall opposite also, "to get Rex on the team. He told us how he met us before his timeline was erased. I was determined we should stick to that plan. It involved Mick, Martin, Jax, Ray, Sara and I all attending a ball undercover. Martin was my father, Jax his aide. Mick was my friend, Sara his baby sister. Ray was miniaturised. We needed Martin's credentials as a scientist to get in and claim acquaintance with Doctor Tyler. We needed a _legitimate_ ," he held up a warning finger to stave off the expected interruption, "reason for Mick to start a fight. Sara and I were supposed to dance with the masses, then accidentally end up too close and appear to be getting closer, at which point Mick would pick a fight with me to defend his sister. His cue was when we froze and I brushed the hair back from her forehead. We'd rehearsed it in here I don't know how many times, and every time Mick cut in on time. On the night itself, he didn't. We had to improvise. If he'd taken a second or two longer I think I would actually have kissed her. God knows, I wanted to. But I didn't, and Mick broke us up and the rest of the evening went exactly as Rex had described. It was two nights later that I decided to test a theory. We were talking, as we did every night, away into the small hours. She asked about the record player in my office. It seemed like a good time to find out if what I had felt was just a blip. Just the effect of the surroundings and the role I was playing. I picked a piece of music, a romantic one, I admit, and asked her to dance. She took my hand, we danced, and then, purely by accident I swear, I found my arm had slipped round her, pulled her closer. Then the music faded and there we were, standing locked together the way we had rehearsed so many times for the ruse. Maybe it was just the muscle memory of those rehearsals that had made me draw her in. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, it was unintentional, I promise you. Nevertheless, there we were, arms around each other, hands tangled together and eyes... Oh, God, her eyes! That perfect cerulean blue, as deep as an ocean. I wanted to drown in those eyes. In all the looks we had exchanged, all the glances and the glares, I had never seen them so dark, so enticing. I should have pulled away from her then, when I knew for certain what I felt was real, but I couldn't drag my gaze away from hers if I had wanted to. I was captivated. Enthralled! And when she kissed me I didn't stop her. I kissed her back. I..."

"I get the picture," snarled Snart. "I ask her, I get the shortest possible answer. I ask you, I get the longest!"

"Anything else?" Hunter enquired tersely, looking down at the dark smudges on his hands.

"Sara said you were friends before you got together," he sneered. "You weren't exactly friends before. Not like she and I were. How'd that happen?"

"A mutual need for alcohol and someone who understood, and a shortage of anyone else in the same boat."

"Hmm," mused Snart, mentally comparing Hunter's answer with Sara's. "Now here's the important one. Well, the first of them anyway. When did the attraction start?"

"What do you mean?" Hunter frowned, glancing over at his rival. "Why is that important?"

"Think carefully, Hunter, I want an honest answer," warned Snart. "When did you first feel it? Before or after she was done being vulnerable?"

"You think I took advantage?" Hunter's eyebrows went up. "I didn't. I wouldn't."

"Then answer the question," pressed Snart, watching his usurper's face keenly. "When?"

The pause would have told him everything he needed to know, even if the flicker of guilt in Hunter's eyes hadn't. Snart drew back with a hiss, a cobra ready to strike.

"I never acted on it," Hunter insisted, getting to his feet and backing away. "I swear!"

Snart rose and followed him. "Details. Now."

"I wasn't expecting it."

"When, Hunter?"

A wall blocked Hunter's progress. "The first time I reached out to her. The first time she needed me."

Snart's arms blocked any escape sideways. "Which was when?"

Hunter swallowed, watching cold fury building up in Snart's eyes and feeling an old scar reopening in himself. "Just after she found out about Laurel's death," he admitted. "I went to talk to her. To explain why we couldn't go back. I expected to see an angry assassin. All I saw was a mirror. The depth and weight of my own grief reflected back at me. It broke me. I couldn't bear to see her in that pain. So I went to her. Reached out to her. Gave her something else to focus on. Wiped away her tears. And the second, the very second, we touched, it was like electricity coursing through my veins. When she walked away from me, my hands were shaking and my heart was beating such that I was certain she must have felt them. It was the first time I had felt anything but anger since Miranda's death. I didn't know what to do with that, so I buried it. There were a few moments in between where it threatened to raise its head, but the next time I felt it was during that dance. The pause after it, anyway. I didn't act on it before then. I swear."

"Does she know?" Snart enquired, keeping his arms stubbornly in place.

"Know what?" Hunter frowned.

"That your feelings go back that far," he clarified. "Does she know?"

"I don't think so."

"What about her feelings? For you. How far back do they go?"

"I don't know," Hunter shook his head. "I thought, during the dance at the ball, that she felt something. I could feel her heartbeat. It was racing as fast as mine. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have asked her to dance with me later, on the ship."

"And you never used that attraction, or her grief, to manipulate her in any way?"

"Not that I'm aware of," answered Hunter, raising his hands in surrender. "Not deliberately."

"Shame there isn't a third witness to that," drawled Snart. "All those evenings alone and I only have the words of the two involved that nothing... untoward occurred."

"Well, there's Gideon..." Hunter began then winced. That was probably not his brightest move.

"I guess there is," said Snart brightly, pushing himself off the wall and out of Hunter's face. "Gideon, do you have recordings of everything that happens on the ship?"

"I do, Mister Snart," replied the AI.

"Good," he drawled, stepping further away from Hunter. "I'm on my way to my room. Start looking out all recordings of your beloved captain and Sara Lance. We'll have ourselves a little marathon. I'll pick up some popcorn on the way past the fabricator. Plain, please. Nothing... fancy."

"I'm afraid a considerable quantity of the footage you wish to review would infringe my privacy regulations," Gideon informed the room.

"You have my permission, Gideon. Show him what he wants to see," Hunter called out. He waited for Snart to turn, eyebrows raised, before continuing, holding the other man's gaze defiantly. "Whatever he wants to see. You have my permission, Mister Snart. Now all you need is hers. Do you think you'll get it?"

XXXX

Snart caught up with Sara in the training room. It was the turn of the staff for the moment. He leant against the doorframe. "Care for a real opponent?"

Sara paused, looked him over, then nodded. If Gideon had let him out of the medbay, she didn't have any immediate worries. Anything else was his concern. He caught the quarterstaff she threw his way and blocked the almost instantaneous blow that followed. He spun, pirouetting out of the path of the strike, and brought his own staff up behind her. She was gone, moving faster than he, and only the keenly honed senses of a thief could pick up the faint whistle of her bo through the air. He brought his up just in time to block, twisting, this time, down and around. She had moved back, out of his reach, by the time he was facing her, each of them crouched and ready to attack. They circled each other, watching for the faintest hint of movement. She darted left. He moved to block. Her staff smacked into his left side, sending him into the nearest wall. A feint. He should have seen it coming. He pushed himself off the wall and attacked. Every blow was blocked. Whether he spun left or right, aimed high or low, he was blocked at every turn. Once again he found himself hitting the wall, this time a little harder. When he moved to retaliate this time, he found the end of a quarterstaff pressed to his throat. He dropped his weapon and held his hands up.

"I yield," Leonard grumbled. "Some of us don't have your years of expertise with that thing, you know."

"That's why I went easy on you," replied Sara with an overly sweet smile. "My usual sparring partner has a bit more experience."

Snart smirked at her, waiting as she lowered the bo. "Speaking of, I need to see Gideon's security footage and _apparently_ I have to ask your permission."

"For security footage?" Sara raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, the staff now resting against the wall.

"Archived footage of you and lover boy. Of how it started," Leonard admitted. "Something I want to check. A few things maybe."

"Why is that any of your business?" Sara retorted.

"You answered my questions. He answered my questions," shrugged the crook. "Your answers didn't match up. I want a third opinion and what better one than Gideon?"

"Sure you don't just want to 'get to know your competition'?" Sara queried, irritation and a tiny bit of anger starting to bubble up.

"Well, if you're offering," he smirked, leaning back against the wall with arms and ankles crossed. "But really I just want to know he treated you right. He's not exactly sporting the best track record."

"He treated me right," she answered, "now leave it at that."

"I can't," he persisted. "I need to know. To see."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

Sara blinked. The words had come out so calmly, in such a matter-of-fact way, that for a moment she thought she had misheard him. "What?"

"I love you," Leonard repeated. "I love you, Sara Lance. And if that lying, manipulative asshole pulled your strings in any way, I am going to hurt him for it."

"He didn't."

"You sure?"

"I trust him."

"Not the same thing."

"Why are you so sure he did?"

Leonard looked at her with a sigh. "Because it's what he does. He does it to everyone, all the time. He manipulated _us_ into coming along for the ride, then he manipulated us into staying. We all had the freedom to choose, sure, but he weighted the choice in _his_ favour every time. You sure all your choices weren't just echoes of his?"

Sara straightened her stance and raised her chin. "I'm sure."

"Then where's the harm in letting me see?"

Sara's jaw tightened in the pause that engulfed them. Finally she spoke, never taking her eyes off the crook. "Gideon, show him what he wants to see. Anything that doesn't involve locked doors."

"I'm guessing that'll be about all of your relationship with him then," snarked the thief.

"Fine, anything that doesn't involve anything more than kissing, Gideon. Understand?"

"Understood, Sara," replied the computer.

"And there was I thinking we're all adults here," smirked Leonard.

"You don't get to see me naked, Crook" Sara laughed, waggling a finger at him and reaching for her staff.

Snart kicked it out of her grasp just as Sara's hand closed around the metal, making her stagger, off balance. He caught her and spun them so that it was now her back to the wall. His mouth closed on hers, pressing a kiss so gentle at first she could easily have turned away from it. She didn't. His tongue traced the line of her lips, meeting hers as they parted, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Her hands cradled his head, keeping him close, tracing the lines of his face with her thumbs. He broke away, catching her lips in multiple tiny kisses, then released her and stepped back.

Still breathless, and with feathers as ruffled as she had ever seen them, he moved to the door and paused. The turn of the head was tiny, but she could feel his eyes on her when he spoke. "Yet."

The doorway emptied and he was gone. Sara heard his footsteps receding down the corridor. She slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Her hands were trembling. She frowned at them, pressing them together and willing the treacherous tremors into stillness. She hadn't intended to kiss Leonard. Or to kiss him back, anyway. But familiarity, curiosity and loneliness had got the better of her. At least at first. Then something much more primal had taken over. She had missed him. Even after she and Rip had started playing their little games, she had missed him. The feeling had started to fade, especially as she and the Captain grew closer, but had come back with a vengeance when she discovered he was still alive.

When she kissed him in the twenties, it had only been to try and remind him of who he was. That had been a kiss almost as brief and chaste as the one at the Oculus. This was the first time he had kissed her. She had once challenged him to steal a kiss and now he had, and as soon as she had realised what he was doing she had remembered those words. That memory had made her yield to him, returning the kiss and letting him take it where he wanted. Maybe she had been lost in the memory of what once was. Maybe she had wanted to hurt Rip. Mostly, she had been lost in the kiss. She wasn't sure if that helped matters or worsened them. She was sure of one thing, though: if she had the time again, she'd do exactly the same.

XXXX

"Why hello there, brother mine," sang the insouciant tones of Luke Johnson. He took one look at the face before him on the monitor and sighed. "Bollocks."

Rip's eyes narrowed into a glare.

"Mate, you haven't looked this shit since you first went AWOL," Luke pointed out, his voice losing some of its more polished accents. "What did you do?"

"Why do you automatically assume _I_ did something?" Rip complained, dragging folded arms further around himself.

"Listen, Mikey-boy, I had the dubious honour of sharing a bunk with you for half my childhood, _and_ I was there every time you screwed up in the academy," Luke pointed out, shifting the monitor slightly and closing his office door. "You _always_ do something!"

Rip rolled his eyes and groaned. "Luke, d'you know why I changed my name to something as short and simple as Rip?"

"You thought the job meant chasing down tears in the space-time continuum?" Luke shrugged, pulling a face and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Funny that: it rather does, doesn't it?"

"It was so you would stop calling me by your damned silly nicknames!" Mikey-boy growled back before his brother could say anything else. "Was there a particular reason for your call or did you somehow sense I needed you to turn up and make my day just that little bit worse?"

"Michael, Mike, Mikey, Mickey, Mick..."

"Cut it out!"

"Of course, then we can start on the surname..."

"Yes, thank you _Lulu_! I think we've reached our quota of childish nonsense today!"

"Oh," laughed Luke. " _Still_ nothing better than that? In what? Twenty five years?"

"And then some!" Rip grumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Look, spit it out: there must have been an actual reason for you contacting me."

Luke, whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter, sobered at least a little. "We hadn't heard from you in a while. I was worried. Can't a man be worried about his _little_ baby brother?"

"Foster brother," corrected Rip, with a weary sneer and a sigh. "And I'm not _that_ much younger than you. Or shorter!" He slumped back against the desk and dropped his hands into his pockets. "We've been a bit busy lately. It's been a bit of a headache."

"Care to share?" Luke shrugged, pulling a face at Rip that said he was going nowhere without more information.

Rip rolled his eyes again and nodded, folding his arms and crossing one ankle over the other. "Well," he sighed, "where do I start. You know that member of my team who blew himself up destroying the Oculus?"

"From Gideon's story only, but yeah. Why?" Luke's eyes took their turn to narrow.

"And I am one million percent certain you remember Sara."

Luke pulled another face and grinned. The grin faded. "Bloody hell, she's not gone and done the same?"

"No," blinked Rip, shaking his head and waving away the fatal error. "No. He and Sara: they had this... friendship. It was... Well, it was on the edge of being... more than that. And then he died. And she kissed him. Right before he died. First and last time. Or so we thought..."

"You bumped into him in the past? What happened?"

"Well, I guess, that's one way of putting it," admitted Rip, wincing. "It just... It wasn't exactly _his_ past. Or ours."

"What did you do?" Luke frowned, watching the gamut of emotions dance across his brother's face.

"He, um, he didn't exactly blow himself up, you see, it turns out. Um. He just, kind of, demolecularised himself into the time stream. He kept bouncing about the place, getting time-drifted and stealing stuff. He was, is, a thief. Apparently even time drift can't take that out of him! Really, really bad time drift! Like: worst case you have ever seen, on top of another one just like it! We eventually tracked him down to Chicago in the twenties. He'd stolen the mob!"

"And now he's stolen your girl?"

"She's not _my_ girl!"

"Yeah, right!"

XXXX

He was staring blankly at the computer screen when Gideon roused him with a warning that Sara was on her way to the bridge. It was just enough time to hide the bottle and glass, run a hand through his hair and hover thoughtfully over some star charts in the attitude of someone very decidedly busy and not at all sitting around moping after her. No, definitely not at all.

"What are you doing?" Sara asked immediately, surveying the star charts with the growing interest of one who is actually starting to understand the tangle of lines and dots. For a moment, memory darted back in time, back to before it all began. Her eyes landed on Jurgen's Ridge. "Thinking of going back?"

"Hmm? No," he mused, shaking his head and taking his time. She knew him too well to trust to anything other than the truth. The truth with a twist, at least. It had been what he was supposed to have been doing, after all. "No, I'm looking for bolt holes. Places to hide. If worst comes to worst, and we are on our own in this fight, we can't risk the Waverider getting damaged beyond repair. I was planning on installing a few pre-programmed jumps into Gideon's files, ready to be activated in certain circumstances or with a certain command word."

Sara nodded, remembering the effectiveness of Rip's pre-programmed tactics in their first encounter with pirates. "Were you planning on sharing this time?"

Rip's jaw tightened. "With those I trust, of course."

There was no change in her expression, but Sara didn't miss the 'I' rather than 'we'. "Am I still included in that?"

"Of course you are!" Rip shot back, the words ringing wrongly in his ears. There was too much anger in them. Too much hurt. Too much disdain. He made an effort to soften his face and voice. "Of course you are, Sara. You always will be..."

"But Leonard isn't?"

Rip's open mouth closed, a thin, tight line forming in its place. "He's only just back with us, and he's still working through the lifetime's worth of memories Gideon's treatment opened up to him."

"But he _is_ back with us," she pointed out, arms folding into the attitude that told Rip he was not getting out of this easily. "Leonard sacrificed himself for this crew. You cannot seriously believe he would betray us now?"

"I don't know _what_ to believe!" Rip cried out, throwing up his hands. "Nobody's _ever_ been through what he just has! For all we know, the neural restructuring Gideon implemented might have left him with a chronic case of split personality disorder! He could be the Leonard you know and love one minute and head of the Chicago mob the next! Worse! He could be the actor I saw on stage in Shakespeare's Globe, who was rumoured to have been the greatest thief London has ever known! Or the man who subverted the enormity of the Parisian Reign of Terror by hiding away all the aristocrats they were trying to kill! Or who knows what other kind of stoic, Machiavellian, bloody-minded, kleptomaniacal, anarchic, pathological liar he might have turned into somewhere along the way?"

Sara's eyebrows rose. "Takes one to know one!"

"I am _not_ stoic!"

"You're right about that!"

"Listen, Sara," he persisted, waving a peremptory hand at the assassin in a way that was liable to get it chopped off. "According to Gideon's calculations there are three other time periods he spent long enough in to feel the effects of time drift, including the American civil war period, where we have _no_ idea what kind of man he became! Nor do we have any idea whom he came into contact with, what long term effects on the timeline his presence had, or who else might have got to him first." He turned away, dragging his hands through his hair and focussing on the nearest relic of his travels. It was an old globe, still showing the now bygone USSR. "We know there are spies in our ranks. We know our enemies have been searching the same eras we have, but without Matthew to guide them. What if they found our Mister Snart instead? You saw how the Time Masters turned Mick against us! Can you not even conceive of the possibility they may, just may, have done the same to our more subtle thief?"

"I kissed him."

Rip froze. The words he had been preparing died in his throat. The breath he had inhaled to say them stayed in his lungs. The air seemed to solidify around him. The image of the ancient globe before him stuck fast like a frozen screen on a monitor. He couldn't take his eyes off it. Maybe _they_ were frozen. Maybe he was. He didn't feel cold. He didn't feel warm. He didn't feel anything. Nothing, from head to heel. No hunger. No thirst. No sadness. No happiness. No fear. No courage. No hatred. No love. Nothing. He could feel nothing. He was encased in a bubble of frozen time, forever remaining exactly as he was. On the very edge of losing her.

"I thought you should know," she added. And the bubble burst.

The world flooded back, colour bleeding into every line and detail, sound echoing in his skull, the taste of something sour and bitter on the back of his tongue. He rocked on his heels, feeling the breath leave him and be replaced by another, then another. She couldn't see his face. Did she need to? Did it matter? "Well hallelujah! Break out the champagne! I don't know who exactly will have won the pool, but I'm damned sure there was one! I think I told someone to put me down for three days!"

"Don't do that," Sara spat, ice glistening on the edges of her words. "You ended things. You don't get to do _that_."

"Oh, my apologies," swept Rip, swinging round to her in a low and mocking bow. "I forgot: Miss Lance does not _like_ feelings. Heaven forbid anyone else should have them!"

"You knocked me out and dropped me off in my Dad's apartment without even saying goodbye, Rip!" Sara countered, storming across the office. She stopped halfway, as though she had walked into a brick wall, when he turned his back on her again. "You left me there for three months without giving a damn about my feelings! You dragged me back into this to get him back! You pushed me to spend time with him! You avoided me as much as you possibly could! You told me I was free: that I should go be with him, find out if it could have worked. You didn't think to ask if I wanted to be free! When did you _ever_ think about my feelings in _any_ of this? You don't get to suddenly expect me to bow down to _yours_!"

"Your _feelings_!" Rip's nails dug into the leather cover of his writing desk. "Sara, I have thought of nothing _but_ your feelings! I have thought about every tear you shed for him, every nightmare you cried his name in! I have thought about all the nights we spent in here talking about him, drinking to his memory, mourning him! I have spent every waking moment of every day since I remembered him thinking about the turmoil you must be feeling! I have done everything in my power to make that turmoil easier to bear! Easier to sort through! I have tried at every turn to do everything I can to spare _your_ feelings! So please! Just for five minutes! Let me think about my own!"


	73. A Time to Return

Leonard Snart sidled onto the bridge of the Waverider, slowly taking in every sight and sound, from the sheen of the smooth metal around him to the wide variety of expressions on the faces of the crew. Faces that were watching him without realising he was watching them. Well, maybe Mick realised. Sara too. Their faces were placid, unreadable masks, waiting to see what he would do next. By far the most enthusiastic expression belonged to Palmer, but when didn't it? If the man's middle name wasn't "of sunshine" already, he'd be hacking his way into Ray's files as soon as he got back to make it so. Better yet: he'd terrorise Ramone into doing it for him. The newbies watched him nervously, all except one. The kid. The kid that was far too comfortable around Mick, never far from Jax and looked like she was competing with Ray for the prize of cheesiest grin. Jax wasn't watching him at all. His eyes were entranced by a nearby smile, and it wasn't Palmer's. Stein looked mildly bored with proceedings, sitting back in his chair, his hands folded over each other. That left Hunter. The captain's jaw was tight. No matter how much Rip pretended to have no interest in his arrival, Snart spotted the momentary flicks of eyes in his direction here and there.

"Hey, Garfield," Leonard drawled in the direction of his best and oldest friend, nodding at the two beaming faces by his side. "What's the deal with Odie and Nermal there?"

Mick grinned. Two other grins faded and looked at each other in mute consideration. Jax looked confused. Stein smirked.

Snart dragged a hand lazily around the wall of the office, enjoying the cool, smooth feel of modernity below his fingertips and the attention of the watching crowd. Stepping lightly up into the office, he processed around the central desk, viewing and reviewing the treasures there. Noting the changes.

He stopped. It couldn't be. Surely not.

Feeling the burn of Hunter's half-hidden glare on the back of his skull, Snart reached out and plucked an item from the top shelf. He emptied its contents into one hand. One by one, feeling the rage build like water behind a dam, he dropped the items back into the bag. He did not return it to the shelf.

"You! It was you!" The words rang out around the bridge. Suddenly all faces looked his way, all sharing the same confused, worried expressions. All but one. Leonard turned and stalked down the office steps, a small leather bag dangling from his hand. 

Quietly, so quietly, Rip breathed a single word of disbelief. "Bollocks!"

The thief prowled round the holotable, his eyes, narrowed and cold, fixed on the captain. Rip's eyes, wide and wary, were fixed on the purse. 

"How?" Rip wondered, his voice barely a whisper. Loud enough to carry in the near silence of the ship. Nobody dared move. 

"I lost this purse December twenty seventh, fifteen ninety six," hissed Snart, his lips pulling back into an ugly sneer. "First time, only time, anyone succeeded in robbing me since I got into this game! Then I get back here and find my girl's been stolen too! And guess what! Ain't it just the icing on the cake and the cherry on top too? They were both stolen by the same guy! You! I should've gone after your scrawny, mud-covered little mini-me back in Bishopsgate when I spotted you! Saved the world a whole lot of trouble!"

Rip circled round the other side of the holotable warily. "You would have created a paradox with the potential to tear apart the very fabric of time itself!"

Snart changed direction, following Hunter's movements towards the office. "Guess I'll just have to make up for it now then!"

"I was a child, starving on the streets!" Rip countered, aware that neither holotable nor team was now between him and the thief. "How was I to know the last purse I took in London would belong to someone my future life would so intricately weave itself around? It was just another purse!"

"What? So my money wasn't enough for you?" Snart snapped, advancing on his chosen nemesis. He noted with mild surprise the man did not retreat further. "You had to go steal my girl too? What's next? My partner? My life? Oh, wait a minute..."

Across the other side of the bridge, Mick folded his arms. "Ten bucks says he kicks the skinny little Englishman's ass."

"Dude, you can't seriously be taking bets on..."

"Twenty dollars on Captain Hunter, if you please, Mister Rory," cut in Professor Stein. "Without any outside interference on either part, of course."

"Of course, Professor," chortled Mick, nodding enthusiastically at the older man and grinning down at Jax. "No point betting on an unfair fight!"

"I don't know," mused Ray, "Rip's been training with Sara..."

"That ain't all..." Mick began, but stopped with a wince as an assassin's fist connected with his side.

"But you told me that Snart's been running the Chicago mob, fighting in the American Civil War, the French Revolution, the Crusades..." Ray continued, oblivious.

"He didn't fight in the Crusades, he dug," corrected Mick, eyes gleaming. "Oh, yeah, and he stole stuff. Cool stuff."

"And he's clearly upset, maybe even angry..."

"He is a raging torrent of furious ire," rumbled Mick. "You can tell by way you can almost tell he's angry."

"But then this is the Captain's ship and we all know he has more than a few tricks up his sleeve..."

"He'll need them!"

"I don't know," repeated the inventor, sighing as if it were an engineering puzzle in front of him, not a fight. "What do you think Sara?"

Sara glared up at him in a way that made the much larger man cower. "I think you should quit while you're behind, Ray! Now let me through!"

She pushed between Mick and Ray, storming out into the midst of the field of battle. The two men were nose to nose and eye to eye, and Sara found herself having to physically push them both backwards just to get between them.

"Enough! Both of you," she yelled, hands outstretched and resting a scant millimetre from either man's chest. "Back off and sit down, or I'll kick both your asses!"

Neither man moved.

"Rip, you know I can, and you know I will!" Sara demanded, glaring at her ex.

A flicker of eyes, a tiny movement, that brought his gaze from his opponent to her, and the stand off was broken. Rip raised his hands in surrender and backed off, heading back to the pilot's chair without a word. Snart moved and Sara's hand shot out, grabbing his shirt and pushing him back. She turned her stubborn stare on him, eyes locking, one hand flattened on his chest, the other hovering, waiting for him to make a move. Silence drew out like a bowstring. Snart stepped back, tossing the leather purse from hand to hand. He bowed, inclining his head to the side, and took his seat. Reluctantly, Martin and Mick exchanged currency once more.

"Where to, Mister Snart?" Captain Hunter enquired, his focus fixed on the controls.

"Gideon, set a course for St Roch," drawled Snart, ignoring the captain if not his question. "Present day according to our trio of fire starters over there."

"As you wish, Mister Snart," smiled back Gideon's peaceful voice.

XXXX

The Waverider touched down in St Roch in the high heat of a summer's afternoon. Leonard stepped out of the ship and paused, a smile drifting across his face as, with eyes closed, he lifted his face to the baking sun. He could almost feel the look Mick would be giving him.

"Never seen you glad to feel the heat," rumbled his partner. By the sound of it he was more than a little confused. "Planning on telling me what this little jaunt's about? I'd have thought Lisa would be the first stop on your list."

"Just checking I didn't screw things up," purred Leonard, lowering his face and glancing down to the gun on his hip. "Any more than usual, that is. Listen, Mick, I got Gideon giving me directions here. I'm good if you want to stay."

"You seriously think I'm letting you out of my sight again?"

Leonard inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Fair enough. Let's go then."

"Blondie not coming?"

"Just us," he shot back, whipping his head round to look over his shoulder at the arsonist. "And what happens on 'this little jaunt' stays on 'this little jaunt', understood?"

"Understood," nodded Mick. He flourished a hand in the direction of the ramp. "After you, boss."

The city was melting all around them as they walked the blocks to the apartment in one of the nicer parts of town. Water dripped from cooling systems that were struggling to keep up with the continual demand for their services. Plants withered and faded in the incessant onslaught. Steam rose from the sidewalk. Leonard raised a hand and pressed a button.

"Who is it?" Kendra's voice giggled through the intercom. In the background, male laughter filtered through.

"Tell his highness to put some clothes on, little bird: he's got visitors," drawled Leonard, trying his best to hide the relief in his voice. Gideon had told him all was well, but he hadn't been quite able to believe it until he heard her: the child he had rescued. The girl whose life he had changed forever. A nagging doubt slipped through the cheers of relief. Would she be pleased to see him? Would she even remember him? Technically, by putting her on her path to immortality, he had also been putting her on the path to endure constantly losing her soulmate over and over again, lifetime after lifetime, for all eternity.

There was a moment's silence on the other end of the intercom. Rather belatedly, the door buzzed and Leonard led Mick through to the hall. The elevators were at the far end and Carter and Kendra's apartment was, unsurprisingly for hawks, on the top floor, but Mick and Leonard had barely crossed a quarter of the distance when wings sounded in the stairwell. They froze, Leonard with a hand out to Mick, ordering him to stay back. He handed his friend the cold gun, praying the trembling in his hands would be put down merely to relearning the weight of it in his grasp. Whether he noticed the shaking or not, Mick took the gun and stayed put while Leonard walked a few paces closer to the stairwell.

Kendra stepped into the hallway. She looked at Leonard with eyes wide and almost fearful. "You. It's really you."

Leonard, his magpie eyes always on the lookout for something shiny, spotted the ring on her left hand and smiled. "Guess you didn't have to choose between princess and priestess then."

Kendra's eyes widened further, then she was on her toes and running. She collided with the crook, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He hadn't dared expect it, even from such a natural born hugger as Kendra. Chey-ara. Suddenly she released him, stepping back and dropping to her knees.

"My noble lord!"

"What the..." Mick muttered in the background.

Leonard lifted Kendra to her feet and looked at her. "Don't do that. You know it's me now. You know how I got there, or you can guess. You don't have to bow to anyone now."

"I owe you _everything_ ," Kendra insisted, fastening her hands around his. "I didn't remember until I heard your voice on the intercom: until I heard that name! Now I remember so much! You were the closest thing to a father I ever had! The only protector my sister ever knew."

"Raia, Meryatum," said Leonard, ignoring the increasingly puzzled grunts of confusion from Mick. "I never knew what happened to them."

"Come upstairs, Herakhty, and I promise I will tell you everything I remember," begged Kendra, dragging him towards the elevator. "I do believe I can guarantee the beer is better than the last time we spoke."

"I'm no messenger of the gods, Chey-Ara," Leonard shook his head, holding her back. "Stick with Snart. It'll avoid any awkward questions."

Kendra considered this, then nodded, smiling, and led the way into the elevator and up to their apartment. Mick's confusion rose further when the same portrayal of sudden reverence repeated itself with Carter. He found himself being guided to a chair by Kendra, a beer being pressed into his hand by Carter, and an explanation even more bizarre than Leonard Snart being the hero of the French aristocracy being told to him by his friend. The tale ended and Kendra picked up where Leonard had left off.

"My sister was very weak," she began, smiling sadly at the memory. "She lived to the next inundation, but no more. Her last days were peaceful, though, and in more comfort than either of us ever dared hope for. That was thanks to you, and to Meryatum."

"He lived?" Leonard asked, leaning forward, his beer left to one side.

"He lived," nodded Carter. "Hath-Set was still after him, for years afterwards, but he didn't dare go near. After you disappeared the way you did, the chief priests seemed to think your spirit had gone _into_ Meryatum. It was a miracle that he survived that wound. They thought it was your spirit in him that had healed him. We both did too. Kendra told me all about it later that day: one moment you were there, then she turned around to Meryatum; the first rays of the rising sun fell on him, then she turned around and you were gone. For years, my brother's word was _law_ in that temple! Hath-Set couldn't get anywhere _near_ any of the three of us."

One word stood out to Leonard. "Years?"

Carter's face darkened and he dropped his gaze to his hands. "It was a dark time for the kingdom. I had just entered my seventeenth year. The inundation failed. Crops failed. People were starving. Meryatum took them bread from the palace and temple stores. He ordered the poor and the hungry to be fed. He said that Horus shines on all of us alike. Our priests were not priests only of the nobles, our father was not king only of the rich. Many lived that year that might have died had he not done so. Then, one day, an arrow was shot through the streets at him. He was struck in the throat, above his pectoral. He was gone before they got him back to the temple. The man was caught and questioned. Ultimately, he was put to death. He would say nothing of his reason but that it was 'the will of Set'. Many, including us, suspected that Hath-Set was behind the assassination, but by then he had ascended too high in the ranks to accuse openly, children as we yet were. Chey-Ara had taken her place among the priestesses of Horus. I was learning kingship at my father's feet. For the next few years, we met only to train, or in secret. Gradually, as we grew into adulthood and power, we got better at moving around in secret. You know the rest."

Leonard nodded. He had been acutely aware of the latter part of their story the day he had discovered the identity of the child he had so automatically defended. Every moment his mind had been his own since then had been spent praying he had done nothing to alter it. And Leonard Snart did not pray easily! "And the sequel," he mused. "The gang tells me Savage is gone for good. What does that mean for you two? Happy ever after and the chance to die in your beds of old age surrounded by little fledgling grand-chicks?"

Kendra shrugged and shook her head. "We don't know. Believe it or not, neither one of us has ever actually made it to a natural death. Old age, sure, but once we were too old to run away, or, more often, too tired of the loneliness, Savage just... caught up with us."

"Apparently this means I'm not allowed bacon," reported Carter in all seriousness. Mick winced.

Leonard smirked. "Protecting your nest, little bird?"

Kendra laughed. "Oh, you have no idea!"

XXXX

The next stop on Leonard Snart's very short list took a lot of tracking down. Apparently, little sis liked to travel in her new-found freedom. He found her in the vault of a Swiss bank, helping herself to a hover board full of gold bars. As eager as he was to make sure his baby sister was the same loveable, larcenous psychopath he'd left behind, Leonard Snart knew better than to interrupt a heist. He watched her progress on Gideon's hacked camera feed, occasionally exchanging comments with Mick.

"Ooh, I like the new toy," he purred, stepping closer to get a better look. "Why carry the goodies when the goodies can carry themselves?"

Gideon, prompt as always, chipped in with some helpful information. "The device to which you are referring, Mister Snart, is a Marty Mark II hover board originally produced in Central City by..."

"Star Labs," both Mick and Leonard finished together.

"Benefit of having a nerd hanging on your every word," chortled Mick.

"Well, I'm sure you'd know all about that," drawled Leonard. The rumbling laughter stopped.

"We're a team," growled Mick. "Partners."

"I know," smirked Leonard. "How long until she's out of there, Gideon?"

"By my calculations, Miss Snart should be exiting the building in two minutes seven seconds," replied Gideon. "I can pilot the jump ship to the site of her getaway vehicle if you wish, or, if you would prefer, I have identified the safe house she is using during her sojourn in Switzerland."

"You make it sound like she's here for the mountain air!"

"I have heard that it is beneficial," smiled the AI.

"Take us there, Gideon," decided Snart, sitting back in the jump ship seat. "Just keep an eye on her and let me know if she hits any trouble on the way."

"My experience of Miss Snart," added Gideon in her usual pleasantly amused voice, "suggests that any trouble she hits will take a considerable time getting back up again."

Leonard grinned wickedly. "Ain't that the truth!"

XXXX

Lisa Snart knew at once that her hideout had been breached. The odd sixth sense of the lifelong thief told her, however, that it wasn't the cops hiding within. She moored her hover board out of sight and unhooked her gun from its holster. Any other crew about to try and take her stash would soon have a headache Game of Thrones would be proud of. She edged the door open, applying an eye to the crack and peering into the gloom within.

"Well now, anyone else might think you weren't glad to see them," drawled a familiar, and long missed, voice within.

Lisa reeled like she had been hit over the head with one of her precious gold bars. Surely her ears were deceiving her. "Lenny?"

"Come on in, sis, the decor's lovely," smirked the unseen voice.

It was a meta, messing with her head. It had to be. She shifted the weight of the gun in her hand.

"It's me, Lisa," confirmed her bat-eared brother. "It's a long story, full of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff I'm sure Cisco will just love to explain to you, but it's me. It really is."

"If it's you, then tell me what you gave me for my tenth birthday," Lisa called through the slightly wider crack in the door.

"Trick question: I was inside for your tenth birthday," shot back the answer. "I got out six months later and lifted a gold bracelet right off the wrist of the second person I saw on the outside. I gave you that for your ten-and-a-half-th birthday instead."

Lisa paused, feeling moisture start to chill on her cheeks, then untethered her hover board and hurried inside, closing the door behind her and letting the board float free. "Lenny?"

"Like the new toy," he smirked. "Cisco behaving himself?"

"Lenny!" Lisa sobbed, throwing herself at her brother with a force that made him stagger backwards.

Mick silently inspected his gun, eyebrows raised, while the man he had known to wince every time his sister got the urge to hug him, even just a little bit, not only endured but returned his second embrace of the week. The present might not have changed, but man returning to them definitely had.

"You still haven't answered my question, you know," prompted Leonard. "Is Ramone behaving himself or do I have to pull a Jacob Marley on him?"

Lisa laughed, extracting herself from her brother's arms and wiping her eyes. "Cisco Ramone is a perfect gentleman," she answered, with a smirk and a shrug, "unfortunately."


	74. A Time to Reconnect

It was odd, Sara thought, looking over her cards at the man sat so sedately by his bed. His bed. Not the medical bay contraption that switched between bed and chair and instrument of torture at need - and she had spent the three hours trying to pry Ray loose that one time he insisted on wearing fringes and got himself shot, then got himself stuck in the damned thing, by the fringes, until Mick got bored of the show and cut him loose - but his own, actual, bed. The one he had inhabited night after night, never once letting her past the door, not of _his_ room, for five months. She marvelled at it. Never in all that time had she been allowed past the doorway. How had she never noticed that before? Had anyone? Mick had, surely? She knew Leonard had valued his privacy, but now it struck her as remarkable that they had, so many times, sat up playing gin in her room, but never in his. The cards had come out whenever they were bored, but most often when one or other of them wanted to talk. They were a safety net. Training wheels for people who were, neither of them, comfortable opening up to anyone outside their own, constricted, circle. They were a safety net again now. Perhaps not for exactly the same reason, but a similar one. It was a way forward. A way to reconnect. A bridge to cross the gaping chasm of their varied experiences since they had last sat like this. She remembered that time clearly, in her room, on the one occasion when cards were not dealt, but feelings were spoken of anyway. The training wheels had been taken off. The safety net had been removed. And yet that first declaration, of an interest at least, had still been so guarded, so tentative. How different Leonard seemed now, sitting across from her at a small round table, perusing his cards, in his quarters, not hers, barely two weeks after being finally released from the medical bay only to track her down in the training room, tell her outright that he loved her, and then kiss her. She knew she hadn't been his first port of call. By his own admission, that had been Rip. Neither was willing to talk about that conversation, though, no matter what tricks she tried. She knew only what Leonard had told her when he asked her permission to view Gideon's files. He hadn't mentioned them since, although she had noticed that, in the days since his return from visiting Kendra, Carter and, for the lion's share of the time, Lisa, he had spent very little time outside his room other than meal times.

"You gonna stare at me like that all night?" Leonard purred, without looking up.

"You gonna stare at your cards all night?" Sara smirked back. He was still him. There were just... differences.

Snart took his turn and looked up at Sara, one brow rising in answer. "Something on your mind?"

"Something on yours?"

"Well, we'll never get far if that's how this conversation is gonna go."

Sara smiled and nodded. She glanced down at her cards, played her turn, then set them, face down, on the table.

"Penny for them," offered Leonard, laying his cards down likewise.

"The cards?" Sara asked mischievously.

Snart smirked. "Your thoughts."

"You'd be overcharged."

"I'll risk it."

She thumbed the edge of the cards idly, considering her next words. A similar situation came to mind. "You're different now."

"Well, I know I don't look it," he smirked, sitting back, "but you're actually relaxing with a retiree right now."

Sara snorted a laugh, half at the idea of Leonard Snart as an old man, half to cover the realisation that he _was_ one! The incident with the oculus might have messed with his mental and physical clock, but now that Gideon had set his brain straight he had a lifetime's worth of memories in his head. His memories. "Do I even want to know what you've got to retire on?"

"Oh, I might have spent a little time tracking down a few things I squirreled away during my travels," he shrugged, waggling his fingers at the air around him. "You should have seen Lisa's face when I gave her Lady Alexa's ring."

"Alexa?" Sara's eyebrows rose.

"Name stuck," he shrugged. "Ring didn't. I was gone before she ever knew it was."

"Look at you, rubbing shoulders with the gentry," smiled Sara. A thousand questions were tumbling through her mind. She knew he'd talked to Mick about some of his time in the past, and _everyone_ knew mini-Rip had somehow managed to steal the purse of the greatest thief London would ever know, but he hadn't opened up any more than that. Ironic, really, considering what he _had_ opened up about. At least to her.

"Bowing and scraping, more like," mused Leonard, looking off to one side of her, as if a window to the past hovered behind her shoulder. "I was an actor. We were performing in her father's house. It was what we did during the summer. I had a few, well, extracurricular activities, but the rest of the men were straight enough. At least in that respect."

"Men? No women?" Sara's eyebrows rose further, then a thought hit her. "Wait, Rip said he saw you on stage in the Globe right before you disappeared the second time..."

"With Will Shakespeare and the rest, yes," nodded Leonard, remembering. "It was the last act when I spotted him, kid on his shoulders, woman by his side. I guess they were the famous Miranda and Jonas. Shame. They looked happy. Funny, I thought he said he'd tried to forget his past."

"Miranda wouldn't let him," filled in Sara, automatically. "Said it was all part of what made him the man she fell in love with."

"Brains too," he mused, nodding appreciatively. "We are who our past makes us. Believe me: I know. Every one of those later jumps, it got harder to sort out who I was, deep down. Sometimes I had some things that helped, like notes or someone to talk it over with, but then, the day I spotted Hunter from the stage of the Globe, I jumped with nothing but the clothes on my back, and they were a costume. I wound up in Paris, French revolution, head skipping from one persona to the next: the thief, the god, the pilgrim, the player. I didn't know who I was: who was real. I just knew I was a survivor, and that was what I had to do. So I did. By the time I found my way to that farm on the border, next era onwards, just before the Civil War broke out, and by the time I was nursed back to health, I had no clue of my past. I clung to a name, nothing more. I had a vague inkling it wasn't the one I was born with, but it was the only one I knew. The only one belonging to me, anyway, and by that point, the only other one I remembered was too mixed up with the lady of the house to ever separate them. Funny: wasn't the first time I came across someone with a name I knew. I might have spent the whole time in Paris going by the name of William, but Rip was there for most of it calling himself Michael. At one point I think I actually called him Mick! Anyhow, turns out without any memories of my personal childhood traumas and dear old dad, I actually let someone get close to me. And yes, I'd even go so far as to say I fell in love with her. I didn't remember any reason not to. Didn't remember any reason not to become a father either." He heard the intake of breath from Sara's direction and paused. "Yeah, I guess Mick didn't mention the boy was mine, then."

"Didn't mention there was a boy," Sara frowned. Leonard matched her frown. "I wasn't part of the team when they tried to take you out of that jump."

"I wondered why I hadn't seen you there," he nodded, the frown dissipating. "They knew I was married, knew she had a kid, but thought he was her previous husband's boy. He wasn't."

"So you stole _his_ girl?" Sara queried, using his own words back at him.

Leonard raised a hand. " _Tech_ -nically, she stole herself. _I_ just stole his slaves."

Sara raised an eyebrow at him. "And I'm sure _he_ saw it that way!"

"Not for long: she shot him," shrugged the unrepentant thief. Sara pulled a face at the irreverence in Snart's voice. He shrugged again. "What? The man was an abusive bastard and he was trying to kill me."

Sara merely rolled her eyes in mute reply. What else could she say? She had no right to feel jealous that this woman had been able to build a peaceful life with Leonard, in the aftermath of the war, and give him a family. This woman with the same name. She had no right, but that didn't stop the odd pang of envy at the bittersweet parody of what could have been. She had missed the chance to be with him and had ended up missing him instead; now she was missing him all over again, while he and Mick had been on their little road trip and then once he started shutting himself away, catching up on a year's worth of the PG bits of her relationship with Rip. Either he had finished the ridiculous enterprise, or he had questions for her and was working up to them, or he was simply bored.

"Point is," Snart continued, picking up his cards again. "I don't know if I'd have ever really understood what it meant to be in love if it hadn't been for Sarah, and that's Sarah with the H by the way, and Lucas. I love my sister. I love Mick, but don't ever make me tell him that. But I didn't really know what love was until I got rid of the idea that it was just some kind of unbreakable, disfunctional-family loyalty. To the family I _chose_ , of course, not to Lewis. I saw it, in Lisa. Envied it even. Protected it. I might not have been capable of it, at least deep down I didn't _think_ I was, but I was damned sure I wasn't going to let her end up in the same boat. Then you came along and I thought maybe, just maybe, here was someone else I could feel that level of kinship with. It's only now, though, that I know I really was capable of feeling something good. That that was the real reason why I iced Lewis; why I make a point of terrifying Cisco whenever I'm in town; why all the danger _this_ little gig put her in weighed so heavily on me. It wasn't just family loyalty, it was love. Same goes for Mick. Same goes for you."

Sara sat in silence. For want of something to do, she picked up her cards, watching as her opponent did likewise. It was his turn. With his usual grace and ease, he played it. Now it was her turn. Her move.

"I haven't had a lifetime to work out what I feel for you," she explained eventually, placing a card down and watching as Leonard slid a hand towards it. The tips of his fingers brushed hers and paused, waiting for her to retract her hand. She didn't. Instead, Sara let her fingers slide between his, interweaving their hands. "I do still feel something for you. I do still want you. But I still feel something for him too. I still want him. And he's done nothing wrong. Okay, maybe _I'm_ angry at him right now, and maybe I don't appreciate having decisions taken out of my hands quite as often as he did, but as far as _you're_ concerned he really has done nothing wrong. Neither of us have. Maybe, had things gone down differently at the oculus, you and I would have got together, and then, maybe, you might have had an argument to hate him for stealing me; but what happened, happened; we didn't get together, and he didn't 'steal' me. I was never yours. I was your friend, but I was not your 'girl'. You need to accept that or you and I are going to fall out before we've even finished getting to know one another again."

"Please," drawled Leonard, tracing his thumb over her porcelain skin, "you know with me it's just a figure of speech. It pisses him off, so I use it. I know the difference between people and property. I've stolen both, many times. If that's what you're worried about, don't. I'm not one to kiss and tell, but Sarah wasn't my _only_ lover in all those years, you know. I know what it's like to yearn for someone and feel pulled to someone else too. I know the difference between love and lust. That much I always got. And I know it's possible to love more than one person at a time. Now, I'll admit: I'm not the world's greatest at sharing. If that's what it takes, though, until you figure out your feelings, I'm in. If you want me, when you want me, I'm yours."

Sara slumped back, her hand sliding out of Leonard's reach. "Well, that's a nice offer, but it wasn't quite what I was getting at. I just meant I need some time. You've had over a quarter of a century. I've barely had a month. Look, you need to know: if Rip hadn't ended things - if I'd still been with him when we got you back - we wouldn't be having this conversation. Yeah, maybe I'd be a bit conflicted. Maybe I'd talk to him about it. But I wouldn't say anything to you about it until I was sure."

"Guess I got something to thank him for then," purred Leonard, sitting back with an injured air.

"You got a lot to thank him for," Sara admonished him. "So ease up on him, please. Last thing we need right now is you two going head to head over every little thing. Believe me: he needs you on this crew, right now. We all do. Something's coming and we've only the barest idea what!"

"Intriguing," mused Leonard. He shifted in his seat, cheek coming to rest on the fingers of one hand. "Tell me more."

A smile flitted across Sara's face. "Well, there's a guy locked up in the medbay claiming to be the greatest thief alive."

"He's mistaken."

"And a rogue Time Captain in the brig..."

"What: another one?"

"And they're both on the same side."

"Well, I see you got the 'separate the suspects' side handled."

"Now we know two of the people they work for..."

"But you don't know the big boss."

"Precisely," Sara smiled. It was nice having him back. Familiar. Shame they couldn't fully trust him just quite yet.

"And you think I can help how, exactly?" Leonard's voice was a dangerously velveteen purr.

"Seems the places and time you popped up in weren't entirely random," Sara shrugged, ignoring the subtle change in the temperature of the room. "They were affected by something these guys were chasing. We were chasing it too. Tracking down fragment after fragment in each time period. For the most part, Matthew helped drop us in the exact time and place - he hid the fragments to begin with - but these guys didn't have Matthew. We know they were able to track the fragments: they got to almost half of them before we did. What we don't know is how they tracked them, or how accurate their systems were. They had a head start on us, but we _still_ got the lion's share. Something can't have been that accurate. And if the thing that attracted them also attracted you..."

"You think we may have crossed paths in our long and twisted history? And I'd know 'these guys' how?"

"They're an alliance of Time Master and Time Pirate," sighed Sara.

"Ooh, an unholy alliance! My favourite!" Snart cut in, and Sara rolled her eyes.

"My point is: at least one half of that bunch is well versed in how to blend in. They might not stick out in any single time period. Think back. Is there anyone who seemed to turn up in more than one place? Anyone who gave you a sense of déja vu?"

"Only your ex," smirked Snart. "That being said, a man can't be expected to remember everything all at once. You got any faces I can put to these nameless names?"

"Besides those in our care right now," replied Sara, tipping her head in a one shouldered, facial shrug, "we might have one or two faces stored in Gideon's memory banks."

"Well then," smirked Snart, leaning forward once more. "What are we sitting round playing cards for?"

XXXX

Mick sat in the kitchen, staring at the beer in his hands. Condensation dripped down his fingers and onto the table, creating a puddle on the smooth, clean surface. He traced patterns in the puddled water, drawing out threads of liquid like the dendrites of a nerve cell. The beer itself wasn't even half finished.

"Y'okay?" Sara asked, pausing as she stepped through the door.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Mick growled. He kept his eyes firmly on the beer. "My best friend's alive, haven't you heard?"

"Well, that's a no," sighed Sara. She headed over to the fridge and pulled out a beer of her own. It wasn't what she had intended, but for the moment Leonard wasn't going anywhere. Mick's eyes flicked up as she took a seat opposite him, then focussed on the beer again. Sara wasn't that easily put off. "What's wrong?"

"He's different," shrugged the arsonist.

"You were different," Sara pointed out. "When we got you back after the whole Chronos thing, you were like a whole other guy sometimes. Sometimes still are. Calmer. More in control. And then there's the whole cooking thing..."

"That was there before," corrected Mick, raising his index finger off the glass, "You just didn't know me well enough."

"Maybe you don't know him well enough any more," shrugged Sara. "I mean, I know he's talked to you about where he's been, but Mick: he spent _years_ in the last few of those jumps. He got married! Leonard Snart got married! He had a wife! He had..."

Sara broke off, unsure how much Leonard had told Mick about his foray into fatherhood, or whether he meant to make his son public knowledge.

"Yeah, I know about the kid," rumbled Mick, guessing the source of her abrupt silence. "He talked about him a lot while we were away. Not to Lisa, but to me. Talked about a few of his other jumps too. There were six, total, where he time drifted. The first was Egypt, seventeen hundred BC. He started out himself. Kept making an effort to remember us too. About halfway in though, something broke his routine and he started to forget. By the time he jumped out of there, he knew he wasn't who he said he was or where he ought to be, although now he thinks he was wrong about that last part!"

"Ancient Egypt?" Sara frowned, looking down at the table in thought. "Is that why he was so worried about Carter and Kendra?"

"More or less," replied Mick, pulling a face. "He doesn't want it spread about though."

"That he was in Egypt at the same time as Kendra and Carter, or that he cares what impact he had?" Sara laughed. The laugh petered out. "What?"

"Ain't my story to tell," he growled, dropping his eyes to the beer again. "Like I said: he's different now."

"And what?" Sara pressed. "Different how? I know he's changed. He's lived the best part of three decades without us: that changes anyone, drifting through time or not."

Mick's face darkened, like an ash cloud over a volcano. "I don't trust him."

"With what? We haven't given him any duties. We haven't been on any missions. What is there to trust him with? The Waverider? The jump ship? They both respond to all of _us_ before they'll respond to him."

"Then I guess it's 'us' I don't trust him with," replied Mick. A frown contorted his face and he looked up, fully meeting Sara's eyes. "Where is he?"

"I left him going through mugshots in Gideon's files," said Sara, suddenly guarded.

"Alone?" Mick's brow creased further.

"He's got Gideon watching him," shrugged Sara. "What's he gonna do?"

XXXX

"So you're the kid claiming my crown," purred a smooth, cool voice.

Erren Tol looked up. "I appreciate the alliteration, but I think I've a few years on you, sunshine. Come to gloat, have we? Or did we just get curious what was behind door number one?"

"Only bad guys gloat," surmised Snart, leaning against the medbay wall and steepling his fingers. "What do you feel like gloating about today?"

"Oh, you're the interrogator," replied the convict, with mock awe and realisation. "And here's I, thinking they've forgotten all about me in this little oubliette."

"Last I checked, an oubliette was a humungous hole in the ground with no way out," Snart pointed out. "Your cell has a door."

"And you should know," continued Tol, with a deferential little nod of the head in Snart's direction. "After all: you've seen both."

Snart received this information with sanguine calm. "Actually, I have. But I'm forgetting: I have the advantage of you, Erren Tol."

A puff of air exited Tol's nostrils and his face contorted into a semblance of a smirk. "You sure about that... Mister... Leonard... Snart? Or is that Guillaume de la Muraille?"

XXXX

Sara was good at sandwiches. She was good at a lot of things, but cooking was not one of them. Sandwiches, however, did not involve cooking. Not the ones she made anyway. And she made awesome sandwiches. Even Ray said so! It was, therefore, understandably frustrating when she turned a corner in the metal halls of the Waverider and collided completely with someone coming the other way. The sandwich, and the plate she had been carrying it on, went flying. She nearly went flying too, had superior reflexes not kicked in and grabbed hold of the wall. She was mentally cursing her lack of attention to her surroundings when she realised the person she had collided with had also reached out and grabbed hold of the nearest thing to steady themselves. In their case, it was her. Her mind snapped back to the present, suddenly one hundred percent aware of whose hands were on her waist, and where the hand that had been holding the sandwich plate had automatically come to rest. She looked up. Damn.

"Rip."

For one long, unending, drawn out moment she wasn't sure if he would kiss her or curse her. His face was close to hers - too close - and his eyes were roaming her features as if searching for the tiniest clue to the inner workings of her heart and mind. He had the greatest clue of all in the palms of his hands, if only he had known it. Then his hands disappeared from her waist and he stepped away, shuffling his coat back into place.

"Miss Lance. My apologies. I was not at all paying attention to where I was going."

The stentorian formality of the speech made Sara wince inwardly. Her jaw tightened. "For once, neither was I," she responded. "No need to apologise. We were both at fault. No major harm done. I'm sure the kitchen has enough fresh ingredients for another sandwich."

"Can I be of any assistance?"

Sara's thoughts spun. What was he? Mister freaking Darcy? Her eyes rolled. "I think I can manage."

"If you'd prefer something cooked..."

"It's not for me, it's for Leonard."

"Ah." A frown ghosted across Rip's face. "Of course. You've been spending quite a lot of time together of late."

It was a statement, but Sara could hear the implicit question. "It was your idea."

"Of course," Rip repeated. "Very well." He bowed slightly and side-stepping around both Sara and the scattered sandwich, then paused. "I believe Mister Snart is in the medical bay. Nothing wrong, just chatting to the erudite Mister Tol. Let's hope there's no truth in the old adage, eh?"


	75. A Time to Work

"What are you doing?" Sara's voice rang out across the office like a bell, making Rip jump and turn his back on the document he was looking over.

"Nothing that can't wait," he snapped, closing the file behind him with one hand and moving a nearby book on top of it. "Must you always sneak up on people?"

Sara's jaw tightened. "You called us to the bridge," she pointed out. "Even Mick's here already!"

Rip's eyes narrowed. He had ordered the crew to assemble. They had another mission. One Luke had called through with just over an hour ago. He had been looking over some of the details when Sara had interrupted him. Details he would not be sharing with the rest of the group. Not entirely. He bowed his head and gestured towards the door. "Well then."

The crew had indeed assembled in the time he had been lost in his thoughts up in the lofty heights of his office, all of three steps above the bridge. As predicted, the scientists of the group had already begun theorising about the blue, holographic form floating in the centre of the room. Martin was listening to Jesse with a deference that was already putting Ray in a black mood, and Matthew and Jax were discussing what appeared to be the power source of the construction. Meanwhile, Snart was sitting back totally at ease, as if he owned the ship, waiting patiently. Mick hovered impatiently behind him and Amaya was watching him like a leopard watches an intruder to its territory. Sara, arms folded and back to the lot of them, was watching Rip.

"Thank you all for gathering so swiftly," Rip began, pressing his palms together. "My apologies for the delay. The device some of you are already looking at is of Time Master origin. It is a time dilation device originally designed for the purpose of creating small bubbles of land that are, essentially, outside of time. It slows the progress of time there so much that a thousand years could pass outside it between the tick and the tock of a timepiece. Once the bubble is in place, only a timeship can enter or leave it. The device also throws up a holographic shielding, so that, from the outside, it merely looks like an untended farmhouse or forest. The shielding itself emits a frequency that discourages wildlife, and humans, from attempting to enter the bubble on foot. Anything not discouraged soon finds itself rebounding from the shields in any case. This is entirely for their benefit. The temporal stress on any living thing attempting to pass into or out of a time bubble without a timeship would stretch its molecules out across a millennium. Not a pleasant, or a fast, way to die. The same applies to any living thing attempting to leave the bubble without appropriate transport."

"Fascinating," opined Martin. "But why are _we_ looking at this device?"

"Time dilation devices were used to create the old Time Master outposts, some of which you yourself have visited," explained Rip. "You may recall the outpost where we met the Pilgrim to retrieve Mister Jackson senior and your other loved ones. In fact my Mother's house is in another such bubble also."

"That doesn't answer the old man's question, Hunter" purred Snart.

"Yeah," growled Mick, shifting his arms tighter around himself.

Martin glanced over at Snart and Mick. "I'll have you know, chronologically, I'm younger than both of you!"

Mick chuckled. Snart merely smirked and turned his eyes back to Rip. "Well?"

"Well, I _was_ getting to that, before I was interrupted," grumbled the Captain. "Captain Johnson sent me word that one of the outposts, an unused one, had been dismantled. The time dilation device that maintained it had been removed. Stolen, he believes, by our enemies."

"Yeah, what _are_ we calling these guys?" Snart interjected once more. "Time Pirates? Time Masters? Sounds like you've got an equal mix of both. Pirate Masters? Master Pirates? I quite like the latter."

"So far, merely calling them the enemy, or the bad guys, has been sufficient," replied Rip through gritted teeth. "We are charged with tracking down the device and returning it to the Vanishing Point, where it cannot be used."

Sara cut in with the obvious question before Leonard could manage it. "And we do that how?"

Rip looked toward his growing panel of researchers. "If we want to find it before it is used, we need to find some way to track it. Gideon can answer any questions you may have regarding the schematics."

"And if it gets used?" Ray queried, one eyebrow raised.

"The new Oculus will alert Captain Johnson to the presence and co-ordinates of the new time bubble," Rip nodded. "Subsequently, he will pass on the information to us. I hope we can intercept the thieves before then, however."

"Why?" Jesse frowned, looking round from the hologram. "What happens once it's activated?"

"It's not so much when it's activated as when it's deactivated that's the problem," winced Rip. "If anyone is inside the field when it disintegrates, they, along with all other organic matter, will suffer the same fate as any attempting to enter or leave an extant bubble on foot."

Ray sighed. "Then knowing our luck, I guess we'd better come up with a way round that too!"

"On the bright side, Odie," shrugged Snart, lounging in his chair, "you only have to figure out what it was the 'bad guys' used. Think about it: it was active when they stole it and now it ain't. If they can do it, you and Nermal should have no problem."

XXXX

"Did you have to be so..." Sara waved her hands about, searching for the right word. "So _you_ , back there? I thought you were gonna go easy on him."

"Believe me: that _was_ easy," drawled Leonard, sliding a hand around her waist and drawing her to him. "He's just way too _easy_ to wind up. Does he know yet? About us?"

Sara shook her head. "Not yet. I'll tell him tonight. Everyone else turns in well before he does. Even if our little R and D corps are still up, it'll only be because they're working on how to track this thing, and turn it off without killing everyone inside."

"I vote for something that _doesn't_ require the personal touch at the moment of detonation this time," quipped Leonard. "And I still say I should be there when you tell him."

"I really don't think that would be helpful," frowned Sara. Her hands, resting lightly on Leonard's chest, started playing with the fabric of his sweater. "Even if this is what he wanted to happen, or meant to happen at least, I think having you there would just rub salt in what's still a very open wound for him. I've had three months more than him to get past how things ended between us. Even if it was him that ended them, and him that dropped me off in Star City for those three months, it still hurt both of us. He's still dealing with that. It's better I speak to him alone."

"Your wish is my command," smirked Leonard, letting his hands slide up Sara's back slowly. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Not in the middle of the hallway," Sara smirked back, shrugging off his hands. She caught hold of one as they fell. "Come on. At least one of us needs to get some training in before this mission goes pear shaped."

Leonard's smirk broadened and he allowed himself to be led through the corridors. "Those doors lock, don't they?"

"I'm serious about the training," Sara called back over her shoulder.

"Just asking," smirked the smug voice of Leonard Snart.

XXXX

Rip thumbed through the blueprints of the old Time Master base, now a discarded ruin free for plants, animals and children to clamber over. He knew the corridors of the Waverider well enough to find his way around without looking up. Gideon had reported faithfully that Sara and Snart were in the training room, practising with staffs, so that was where he had headed.

"Mister Snart, I wonder if..." Rip began, walking through the open doorway and stopping, open mouthed. The familiar feeling of frozen helplessness washed over him again. This time, though, he didn't wait for Sara to speak to break the bubble. "My apologies. Gideon said you were training."

Sara pulled away from Snart, letting her bo fall from around his shoulders. "We were. At least until a few seconds ago. Look Rip..."

"None of my business," Rip cut in, holding up a hand. "I merely wished to ask Mister Snart's opinion on how the thieves got to the time dilation device in the first place. These are the blueprints of the complex the device was stolen from. I've had Gideon mark the device itself in red. I'll leave them with you. You can get back to... whatever."

Sara watched him turn on his heel and march away. Part of her wanted to run after him: to catch up and explain. But what was there to explain? He had given her her freedom to find out if she and Leonard could have worked, and she had, eventually, taken that chance. He had ended things. He had pushed her away. It truly was none of his business. It still wasn't quite how she had wanted him to find out though. A hand snaked around her waist and a pair of lips pressed themselves against the crown of her head. She leant back into Leonard.

"Guess that's one more thing ticked off the to do list," he purred in her ear. The shivers that ran down her back were impossible to disguise. A smile slid across Leonard's face.

"You should probably look at those papers," sighed Sara, increasingly aware of the feather-light touches of lips around the curve of her ear and down the soft, exposed skin of her neck.

"Later," he whispered against her skin.

Sara swore inwardly and stifled another sigh. He was right. Rip could wait. The papers could wait. The nerds wouldn't be done for hours yet. Her hand slid up and over his short cut hair, guiding his mouth to her neck. She hissed in a breath as his teeth made contact with her skin. "Gideon, close and lock the door. And soundproof it too."

"As you wish, Miss Lance," replied the AI from above.

XXXX

Sara stalked through the thicket of trees with her bo before her. She shivered. The midst of the Black Forest in Germany, in autumn, is never the warmest place on the planet. "Any hints, Rip? This thing isn't exactly jumping out at me."

"You'll know it when you've found it," was the unhelpful answer. "If anything it might look like a patch of overgrown forest."

"Really? In a huge, overgrown forest? Imagine that!"

"I'm sorry, Sara: we've narrowed the search as best we can," replied Rip, the mask of command removing any and all emotion from his voice. "With the seven of you spread out as you are, one of you should find the edge of the bubble soon."

"Here's hoping! I feel like Little Red Riding Hood out here! A _cold_ Little Red Riding Hood!"

"If you're Little Red Riding Hood," interjected Leonard's cool, calm drawl, "I pity the Big Bad Wolf!"

"I think we got it!" Firestorm's voice called through the comms, cutting off any riposte from Sara. "Rip, zero in on our position."

Sara looked up, scanning the sky for movement and the telltale glow of Firestorm's wake. The flowing shimmer of the cloaked jump ship passed overhead and she turned to follow.

"Looks like you were right, Firestorm," confirmed Rip. "Everyone else fall back to the Waverider. Mister Snart and I can take it from here."

"Still say I should be going with you, Boss," rumbled Mick.

"Ditto," added Sara. "There's plenty room in that jump ship."

"The more people we take in, the more people we have to worry about getting out," replied Leonard. "It's a two man job, so let's not complicate matters."

"Besides: I need all of you to keep an eye on the Waverider," added Rip. "There's no telling how long the field has been set up, or what we'll find inside. I promise: If we think we'll need backup, we'll come straight back out and get you. Right now, and as long as we're in there, the Waverider is vulnerable. If they think the team is divided, they might think it's a great time to try and collect the missing pieces of our little jigsaw puzzle. Take her into the upper atmosphere. Even into the temporal zone if you have to!"

"I hate to say it, but he's right," agreed Leonard. "Divide and conquer. It's a tactic as old as the Stone Age. Believe me: I know."

"Tell me you did not teach the Stone Age people tactics!" Rip was heard to groan as the jump ship touched the edge of the bubble and stretched out, then disappeared.

"Woo! I would love to be a fly on the wall at that conversation!" Ray grinned, waiting at the cargo bay door as Sara hurried up to the ramp. "I'm sure..."

"Finish that sentence and I'll break both your arms," said Sara, with absolutely no hint that she might possibly be joking. "Armour or no armour!"

"Duly noted," finished Ray, the grin turning to a grimace.

"Close the door, Haircut," muttered Mick as he passed, the last to re-enter the ship.

"Duly noted," repeated Ray, his face stuck in a rictus of terror. Without looking, he pressed a hand to the switch and the door closed.

"Gideon, take us out of here," ordered Sara. "You heard the Captain. Upper atmosphere. Shields on. Camouflage on."

"I have already begun preparations, Miss Lance," Gideon informed her and the others. "Please make haste to the bridge and your seating so that I can take off."

"You heard her folks," Sara called back down into the cargo bay. "Time to go. Let's get strapped in for take off."

Alone, now that Mick had followed Sara up the stairs, Ray finally let his hand fall from the doorframe by the switch. Through gritted teeth, two words preceded him up the stairs. "Duly noted."

XXXX

The waiting was interminable. Hovering in the upper atmosphere, the crew went each their separate ways from the bridge. Not at first, of course. At first they sat, watching the clouds roll by below them as the curve of the Earth sloped away at the horizon. Time, and the planet, were turning. The team were in geosynchronous orbit, so they turned with them. The sky blurred from blue into indigo around the edge of the atmosphere, then sank restfully into the deep, dark, blackness of outer space. They were facing north. Gideon had turned the ship away from any possibility of the sun suddenly glaring through the one and only real window on the ship. She had put up with that once before, and once was quite enough. As the world turned, and the shadow of night spread like a blanket over the planet, waves of blue and green light washed down to them.

"The aurora borealis," breathed Professor Stein. "I do believe I have never actually seen them before."

"I have, once, in Canada," nodded Ray, all thought of any earlier conversations lost in the magic of science. "Never from above though."

"The colours are different," commented Jesse, the first to unhook her restraints and step closer to the glass. "They're red and yellow on my Earth."

"That's the other end of the spectrum," mused Ray, joining her at the window. "It must be to do with the phase shift in the atomic frequencies in other dimensions of the multiverse. It's the same phase shift, I think, that keeps all the different universes apart, but close."

"Or it could be due to a difference in the chemical component of our upper atmosphere, or the particles in our solar wind, or our magnetosphere," suggested Jesse.

"Or indeed a combination of all four," added the Professor, making his way up to get a better view himself.

"I ain't sitting around listening to those three until my head explodes," grumbled Mick. "Who's hungry? I can have a pizza ready in an hour. Less if I get Gideon to do the base."

"I gotta go train," began Sara, but she was cut off immediately by Mick.

"You trained earlier. You need to eat. Way Haircut tells it, they've barely been in there five minutes, maybe. They'll be fine."

"Mick..."

"They'll be fine," Mick repeated. "Come help me choose some toppings. That's an order."

Sara sighed. "You can't order me, Mick: I'm Rip's second. I'm in charge."

Mick stood up and looked over to Tyler. "Hey, Doc: help me out here."

The android looked from Mick to Sara and back. He shrugged. "Mister Rory is right, Miss Lance. Captain Hunter and Mister Snart have barely begun their mission in their time frame. It will be many hours, possibly, before we hear from them. We must all take the opportunity to keep our strength up. Especially those of us in command. Gideon is perfectly capable of alerting us to any necessity for our presence here."

"Medical trumps tactical," growled Mick, folding his arms. "Bones says eat, Kirk, so go eat."

Eyes rolling, Sara removed herself from the chair. "I'm not Kirk, I'm Janeway."

"Technically, I think you're Riker," chipped in Ray, not looking round. "Which would mean that Rip is Picard, Gideon is Data and so on. Oh, that would make Matthew Doctor Crusher. I guess that means Snart must be Deanna Troi..."

"Both arms, Wesley!" Sara shouted back on her way out the door.

XXXX

"Jump ship to Waverider: prepare for docking!"

The call came through the comms without warning. Scattered as they were throughout the ship, most in the kitchen but others in various workrooms studying their rare view of the world, the crew suddenly snapped to attention. Feet clattered along the corridors as they congregated in the bridge.

"Rip!" Sara called back. "Did you get it? Are you okay? Both of you?"

"Nothing the medical bay can't handle," reported the clipped formal tones of the Captain. "We do not have the device on board, but the field should collapse in approximately forty two seconds and then we can go and retrieve it. We'll be with you shortly."

"That's a 'no' to all three then," she sighed, rolling her eyes and locking her seat restraints into place. "Tyler, Professor, go get the medical bay ready. Amaya, Mick, go meet them at the docking bay. Ray, Jesse, Jax: get that housing ready to cloak the device. Gideon..."

"Already done, Miss Lance," interrupted Gideon curtly. "I began preparations for the Captain's return, and our subsequent departure, as soon as his message was received."

"Let me see them on that monitor screen as soon as they arrive," replied Sara.

"Yes, Miss Lance."

XXXX

The green walls of the time stream undulated past, occasionally rocking the ship as it made its way back to the Vanishing Point. Sara descended to the hold, where Rip was scribbling away in a notebook and checking the seals on Ray and Jesse's containment unit.

"Want to tell me what happened out there?"

Rip didn't even glance over his shoulder. "Not a lot _did_ happen. We went in. We found the device. We attached and activated Professor Stein and Mister Jackson's time delay EMP. We got out. You know the rest."

"Yeah, I also know the bruises," Sara retorted. "And I know you. You wouldn't have set that thing off with people inside, not without giving them a chance to get out."

"I did at the Vanishing Point. We did. With the Oculus," he muttered back.

"Which is why I know you wouldn't be too keen on doing it again," she pointed out. "And you'd have mentioned it by now if you'd had to. So what happened?"

"Ask your boyfriend," murmured Rip, his voice sinking to a spiteful growl.

"I'm asking you," she persisted. "Maybe I'll ask him later. Right now I'm asking you."

"You know, most women would be flattered by two men fighting over her!" Rip spat back, closing the notebook with a snap.

"Guess I'm not most women, then," Sara shot back. "Can't say I've met many who _are_ by that rule!"

"Heaven forbid!" Rip muttered under his breath.

"Who started the fight, Rip? Why did it start?" Sara demanded, plucking the notebook from his grasp and dropping it on top of the containment unit. "Don't even _think_ of lying to me!"

"Why did it start? Oh come on, Sara! Why do you think?" Rip retorted, rising and turning to face her with an out-flung hand. "He has been _itching_ to have a go at me since the day he worked out we were together, and I cannot help but feel there is something off about him!"

"So you're jealous? That's it? You jeopardised an entire mission because you were jealous?" Sara yelled. Somewhere above them the door slid unobtrusively closed and the room soundproofed itself. "Are you serious, Rip? You _wanted_ me to get back together with Leonard. You didn't even _ask_ what _I_ wanted before you pushed me away! You _don't_ have a say in who I sleep with now! You don't _get_ to be jealous! I am with him now, whether you want me to be or not!"

Turning on her heel, Sara headed for and up the steps. Determined to have the last word, Rip hurried after her, catching her by the arm and turning her back to him. She had meant to throw his hand off her, but the ship came to a sudden halt, throwing her down the few stairs and into his arms. Once again, he was too close. Once again, she could feel his heart racing under her hand. Once again, she found herself hypnotised by a pair of darkening green eyes.

"Maybe you shouldn't be."

She met him halfway, their lips colliding with a need that was mutual, each for each, falling back into a pattern that was etched into their hearts and their bones. Arms flowed around each other like water following its hard-worn course. Hands found familiar holds and kept them, jealous even of the air around them, threatening to never let go again. And then they did.

The voice was Ray's, calling through the corridors above, asking if they were alright. Rip stumbled away from her, hand on the back of his head, smoothing down the hair she had moments before messed up. Sara ran a hand over her own and steadied her breathing, looking over at the Captain as he turned away from the upper deck and the approach of their crew mate. She turned and walked a little up the stairs, hearing Rip head in the opposite direction. Then Ray appeared, sunny and cheerful at the sight of his two friends unhurt.

"You're okay! Great!" Ray grinned. His grin grew quizzical as his eyes flicked between the two ex-lovers. "Sorry about that: slight mishap with coming out of the time stream. Still working on why."

"We're fine, Ray," Sara assured him, walking up the stairs to meet him. "Just one or two pressing matters to discuss. Come on: you can tell me all about it on the way to the bridge."

That evening, after delivering the time dilation device to Luke and spending the rest of the day catching up on news, Sara didn't even try to rest. She trained and she waited. When Gideon reported to her that everyone else, bar one, was asleep, she put her batons down and headed for the office. There he was, leaning back against the central desk like he was waiting for her. Maybe he was. She climbed the steps and leant against the doorway.

"So," she said quietly, her arms folding about her. "That happened."


	76. A Time to Attack

"I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry," said Rip, staring down into the depths of the amber liquid swirling round the glass in his hand.

"Thought you weren't gonna drink alone," murmured Sara nodding down at the glass. "And you weren't the only one doing the kissing back there."

Rip swung a hand behind him and slid a second glass into view. It already had a measure of the spirit in it. He set it down on the central desk and stepped back, waiting for her to pick it up. Slowly, her eyes more on him than the glass, Sara stepped into the room and raised it to her lips. She tasted the whisky, taking her time to appreciate the taste, to feel it burn its way through her system, and to gather her strength.

"Glenfiddich?" Sara asked, setting the glass down again with care.

"Macallan," corrected Rip. A smile flitted across his face, chasing a laugh.

Sara's heart clenched. She had forgotten how much she missed his laugh. It had been a rare and precious jewel, once upon a time, and in the first few weeks after her return to Star City she would have done anything to hear it again. She took another sip from the glass.

"I'm with Leonard now," she said, setting the glass down again.

"I know. I get that," he murmured, his brows drawing together.

"I was gonna come tell you tonight, but..." Sara's voice trailed off .

"Not much point after this morning," he finished for her.

"No."

They drank in silence, neither one looking at the other. The hum of the ship was a weight pressing down on them, crushing them, until eventually they each felt the need to hear something else. Anything else.

"Look, we..."

"I could..."

Rip waved a hand at Sara. "You go first."

"We've been crammed together on this ship for three months now, nearly, since we got Leonard back," Sara pointed out, "and today was the first day we had a problem."

"I think we all know what was different about today," quipped Rip, his eyebrows flicking upwards. He raised his glass to his lips but it was empty. With a sigh, he set it down.

"And now the Band-Aid is off," continued Sara, choosing her words carefully. "Can we get back to behaving like mature, civil adults?"

"When did we last do _that_?" Rip snorted.

"Stop it," Sara ordered. "You're hurt. I get it. But you knew this was going to happen, surely? You pushed for it to happen!"

"I know!" The captain threw up his hands and turned away, one hand rising to the bridge of his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Resigned. "I know, Sara, and I'm sorry. I knew it would be difficult for me to see you two together, I just didn't bank on it being _this_ difficult!"

"We could always maroon _you_ for three months, see if that makes it any less difficult," suggested Sara, folding her arms. There was more acid in her tone than she had meant and she looked down with a frown. "Sorry, I didn't mean that to come out that way."

"Maybe you're right though," shrugged Rip, staring down at the empty glass on the desk. "Maybe we do all need a break from each other. Give me a chance to get used to the idea of you two together. Give you and Leonard a chance to get used to actually being together. I mean, it's still new for you: you don't need me messing you around when you're just starting something with someone else."

"I don't," nodded Sara, "you're right about that." Her eyes dropped to the floor and closed, a frown forming between her brows. "But you're wrong about it being new. Not as new as you think, anyway. We've been together for over four weeks now. We didn't tell you in the early days because, well, this!"

Rip turned to look at her. "Four _weeks_? That's nearly a _month_!"

"Like you said this morning: it's not really your business, Rip," said Sara, looking from the floor to the central table by her side. There were a few dregs left in her glass. Barely a sip, she thought. "We knew it would hurt you and we didn't want to do that if it all fell flat on its face a week later."

"But it hasn't fallen flat on its face," he intoned, never taking his eyes off her. "It hasn't and you're happy with him."

"I am," she nodded. "So: where do we go from here?"

"I could drop you both off in Star City, or Central," he shrugged, dragging weary hands down over his face. "It's as easy to come back for you on day I dropped you off as it is three months later, since it appears I'm the only one needing the extra time and distance."

"Or we could drop you off somewhere. Maybe in eighteen seventy one: spend some time catching up with Jonah," Sara shrugged back. "I'm sure Gideon can plot a course to pick you up three months later with just me for a pilot."

"Are we about to have a custody battle over _my_ ship?" Rip shot back.

"Do you really want to spend the next three months on here without your best fighter and your best thief?" Sara countered. "Oh yeah, and you get Mick!"

"Oh good, now we're having a custody battle over _Mick_!"

"Unless you were planning on dropping him off too," Sara shrugged. "In which case, you'll be stuck with a moping Ray for three months..."

"Perish the thought!"

"Unless you're gonna drop him off too," continued Sara, ignoring him, "which would mean, if you do, you'll be down almost half your team!"

"Hmm," mused Rip, eyeing the decanter thoughtfully. "I take your point, but still..."

"We'd jump straight from drop off point to pick up point," offered Sara. "No detours. We'd have control for one jump only. What could go wrong?"

"Well now, that's just _asking_ for trouble!" Rip joked, letting the hand that had started to slide towards the decanter drop by his side.

"Just sleep on it, Rip, that's all I'm asking," said Sara, her voice dropping to a soothing whisper. "You're the one who needs the time, so you should be the one to go."

XXXX

The Vanishing Point was a busy place, with timeships jumping in and out, and jump ships and other light craft zooming about on domestic errands, such as ferrying one new unit from one place to another, or carrying spare parts and tools to where the work was endlessly rolling onwards. Nevertheless, in space, no-one can hear you scream, and those captains who had docked their ships for the night slept on unperturbed. The irregular arrival and gradual congregation of a number of other timeships, still showing the recognisable motifs of the fleet, went without comment.

It really shouldn't have.

XXXX

In his dream he watched Jonas play with the kite he had brought back from his last mission. It sailed high above them in the form of the Waverider, banking and dipping as the boy holding its strings pulled first this way then that. The sun warmed him and sparkled off the blue waters of a lake nearby. A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees dotted around the wide grassy expanse of parkland. Birds sang. Bees buzzed from flower to flower. He felt a warm arm slide around him and he turned. The face by his side was one he knew as well as his own.

"Hello you," he smiled.

Miranda smiled back. "You're lost again, aren't you."

"How the hell did you do it?" Rip asked her, taking in the details of her face like a dying man at an oasis. "Putting up with all that time I spent away from you? I know it was hellish for me, but at least I always had a mission to focus on. Something to _do_. Something to distract me from the soul-consuming, gut-wrenching pain of missing you. You spent _every day_ working a mundane job that took barely a _fraction_ of your exquisite intellect; looking after our son, our _home_ , all alone; taking each day in the slow, hour by hour progression, of just living. Without me. How?"

"I love you," smiled Miranda, tracing his cheek. "Love, real love, gives you the strength to do anything. _Bear_ anything. I will always love you, Rip. No matter how far away you are, or for how long. Just as you will always love me. Just as you will always love our son. Just as you will always love Sara."

Rip glanced down, finding her other hand and interlacing his fingers with hers. "You don't mind? That I love someone else?"

Miranda tipped her head to one side and laughed. "Does loving Sara make you love me any less?"

Rip looked up, his hand dropping hers to rest on her cheek. "Never!"

She covered his hand with her own and turned her head, briefly, to kiss his palm. When she turned back to him, her eyes bore into his with an earnestness he had seen once long ago, in the halls of the Time Masters' Academy. "Does it make you happy?"

"Not especially, right now," he shrugged, the corner of his lip curling into a wry smile.

Miranda brushed his hair back from his forehead. "Because you think she doesn't love you? Or because you _really_ think she needs the time to explore her other options?"

Rip's shoulders dropped. He sighed a small laugh and shook his head. There were two people in the whole of time and space that had been able to read his true thoughts like a neon sign. His mother and his wife. Perhaps, one day, had things been different, Sara might have been added to that list. He shrugged. "She was falling for him when we lost him. Falling in love, not lust. Everything that happened between us: it was just a coping mechanism. At least for her. She only even _mentioned_ being in love with me when I nearly died! Kendra got _engaged_ when Ray almost died! She _still_ ended up with the guy she'd lost! I was a place holder for her. One she was fond of, certainly. A friend, albeit a very close one! Nothing more."

Miranda let her hand trace the lines of his face down from his hairline to his chin. She lifted it, bringing his eyes back up to hers. "And so you'll let the first person to make you happy since losing us slip through your fingers? Without even trying to fight for her?"

"I just did!" Rip threw out a hand in exasperation and turned away. "I was too late!" His eyes fell on the laughing form of his son, tugging on the kite's strings. "Why must I always be too late?"

The kite bucked and whirled in Jonas' hands, tugging its strings loose and rising away out of the boy's grasp. Beneath him, Rip felt the ground shake. He looked to Miranda, eyes wide.

"What was that?"

Placid as the lake they sat by, Miranda smiled back at him. "That was time for you to wake up, Rip. Before it really is too late."

XXXX

Rip awoke with the certain knowledge that something was wrong. The ship around him was silent and still. Too silent. The hum of the engines had gone. The room was in total darkness.

"Gideon?"

No answer.

"Bollocks!" Rip swore in a venomous whisper. He dragged himself out of bed and hauled on some clothes, touching a hand to the comms unit in his ear. "Sara, Jax, Mick, Ray, Martin! Anybody! Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Rip reached the door in double time. The power may be out, and the doors heavy, but he had been able to open them in that state before. He reached for the join of the two doors and scrabbled at crack, trying to get a hold. Several broken nails later, he slid down with his back to the door. The last time he had done this, he recalled, the door in question had already been halfway open. He could feel the bruises forming and the blood oozing from his fingertips. "Hell and damnation!"

There was no light in the cluttered room, but it was his room, on his ship, and he knew it well enough. A crowbar would have been a useful addition and he knew for certain he did not have one. He did have something else that might do though. Pushing himself up and stumbling over to the desk opposite the door, he fumbled in one of the drawers and drew out something he had only just begun getting familiar with again. Familiar enough, he thought, dragging the knife from its sheath and applying its blade to the unyielding crack between the doors. A litany of colourful invective followed when the only thing to give way was his hand, slicing an angry, burning line across his palm.

Slumping down against the door again, Rip laid down knife and sheath and fished in his pocket for the field first aid kit and his torch. He had to hold the latter in his teeth to fix the bleeding wound in his hand and the scrapes on his fingertips, but when it was done, his knife cleaned of his blood and sheathed again, and both knife and medical kit hidden away in pockets, he took the torch from his mouth and examined the door. Neither knife nor fingers had made any impression in it. He changed his attention to the control panel. It, on the other hand, was easy to pry open. Without power, however, he thought, there wasn't much point in messing around with it.

Searching his room for something that would provide sufficient power took Rip the best part of an hour. He knew his room well. He knew its contents well. Or at least he _had_ before Sara had started moving _his_ things around to make room for _her_ things. He hadn't quite found the time to refill the gaps that were now present. Finally, he found a set of batteries designed to power his stun gun, which, he noted, was not present. One of those, hooked up to the control panel, might just be enough to power it. Torch in mouth once again, he delicately picked out the wires that usually supplied power to the panel. He was just about to apply his knife to the wires, to cut two ends clear of insulation material, when the panel lit up and the door slid open.

"My, my, isn't this embarrassing," drawled a serenely lazy voice from above. "A veteran Time Master stuck in his own quarters!"

Rip's shoulders slumped, his hands fell, and his jaw set. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted you," he growled, rising to meet Snart's indolent eyes. "What have you done with Sara? Is she safe? Are the others?"

"No need to get personal," smirked Snart, leaning against the open door. "I haven't done anything with Sara she didn't want me to. As for safe, well: she and the others are as safe as you and I are. Probably more so, right now."

"Who are you working for?" Rip spat. "What's your plan?"

Snart sighed and inspected his fingernails. "I work for you. My plan is to get you, and everyone else on board this ship, out of their locked rooms and somewhere we can fight back. Any other stupid questions or can we get out of here before a patrol drops by and puts us somewhere I can't break out of?"

"You f..."

"Now, now, Captain," broke in Snart, waggling a finger at Rip, "don't let appearances and old grudges fool you. I'm on your side. I'm just a better thief than you are. That's why _I'm_ the one on the _out_ side of the door. Shall we?"

"Fine," snarled Rip. "Where to and what do you know?"

"All in good time," nodded Snart, pushing himself off the side of the door. "Not that I know much. First we get Sara and Mick."

"I have a better idea," countered the captain. "How long did it take you to break me out?"

"Ooh, a few minutes," shrugged Snart. "Getting the lock off was the toughest part. They've put one on every door."

"But they're forgetting that locks don't apply to one person on this ship," pointed out Rip. "Jesse."

"And speedsters can phase," Snart nodded in understanding. "Fine. Let's go wake up Nermal."

Rip made to head down the corridor to Jesse's room but Snart pulled him back.

"You really need to learn the inside of your ship better!" Snart scoffed, dragging a sullen Rip to one side. "Here."

Leonard Snart pushed at the side of a wall panel opposite Rip's now closing door. The wall panel sprung outwards and slid open. In the marginally deeper darkness within, Rip saw a hollow compartment. Shining the light of his torch on the opening revealed a set of rungs leading both down and up.

"You _seriously_ never checked your ship for secret escape routes?" Snart wondered aloud. "In thirteen years?"

"Fourteen," Rip corrected automatically. "Oddly no: it never occurred to me."

"Get in, head up," ordered Snart. "Once you're in the cavity above, turn back over your own room. It's empty. We can talk there."

Rip followed Snart's instructions, one part of him still wondering if this were part of some incalculable, convoluted plan to rid him of his ship and crew. The crawl space above the rooms and corridors was suspended above the ceiling, minimising the noise of his passage. In the wide gap above his own quarters he saw the walls of the room continue upward, marking its extremities. The corners on either side of the desk looked wrong. For a start, there were corners. There were also gaps in the floor of the crawl space, and more rungs.

"Every room's the same," whispered Snart, spotting the frown on the captain's face. "That's how I got out. That's also how we get in to Jesse's room."

"Why didn't you get in to my room that way?" Rip muttered back.

"Professional pride," smirked Snart. "I can't have people thinking there's a lock I can't unpick!"

"Seriously?" Rip sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Plus you've so much stuff over where the panels open," he continued, moving off in the direction of the other rooms, "the noise of it hitting the floor would bring the 'bad guys' running! Come on."

Slowly, carefully, they edged their way over the rooms adjacent to Rip's. Once upon a time they had belonged to Carter and Kendra. The third room was Jax's, who had learned early on how to soundproof his quarters. The rest of the crew followed, one by one, until finally they were over Jesse's room. Spy holes in floor of the crawl space let them see the young woman asleep in bed, and the lack of anything to impede the opening of one panel.

"I'm sure there is something decidedly ethically wrong with this situation," muttered Rip.

"This situation is what's saving your ass right now," Snart reminded him. "Oh yeah: and me."

"Don't you mean 'mine'?" Rip queried, following Snart to the rungs.

The answer echoed back in the darkness. "Nope."

The secret panel opened quietly, admitting both men to the room. Snart moved to wake Jesse up, but Rip's hand held him back.

"In light of our current predicament," he murmured, "I think Miss Wells would be much less perturbed being woken by her captain, whom she knows and trusts."

"Than by the thief with the possible multiple personality disorder?" Snart concluded for him.

"Quite," nodded Rip, stepping forward and shaking Jesse by the shoulder. "Miss Wells? Miss Wells!"

"Wha...?" Jesse turned, bleary eyed and squinting at the light from two torches now trained on her. "Captain Hunter? What's wrong?"

"We seem to be under attack," began Rip.

"Bad guys shut our power down, shut _Gideon_ down and shut _us_ up in our rooms with some nice, fiddly, future locks that I can now add to my résumé," drawled Snart, sidling over to the bed. "Don't know how, don't know how they boarded the ship, don't know where they are, don't know how many there are. Any questions?"

"Yeah," retorted Jesse, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "How'd you get in my room?"

"Well now, a magician..." Snart began, but this time it was Rip's turn to interrupt.

"There's a series of secret passages in the ship," he deadpanned. "They give us access to the corridors and bedrooms at least. Mister Snart, however, apparently has more experience of them than I do."

"They lead everywhere but the main brig, at least inside the heart of it, and the quarantine rooms," sighed Snart. "I guess whoever built this thing didn't want to risk anyone getting out of those that shouldn't. Maybe they had other fail safes in mind. Either way, you're a speedster. You don't need them."

"We need you to scout out the ship," explained Rip. "Find out what we're up against. We'll work our way through the rooms, collecting the rest of the crew. We'll get Mister Tyler first, as he's in the only occupied room on the far side of yours, then work our way back round towards Mister Jackson. We'll gather everyone in Kendra's room: that's the first of the two unoccupied ones between Mister Jackson's room and my own. Meet us there."

"I'll get Matthew," countered Jesse. "I can phase him through the walls with me, and anyone else you haven't got, once I'm done checking out the ship. I'll do that first, then get him, then work my way down from Jax to meet you."

"Deal," nodded Rip. "Now should we turn our backs to let you..."

A gust of wind and a blur of movement filled the space between Rip and Snart. When it faded, Jesse stood there, suit on and mask in hand.

"Really, boys," she grinned. "Don't you know anything about speedsters?" She slipped the mask over her eyes and disappeared from the room.

Snart pointed his torch straight at Rip's face. "'Turn our backs'? Really? Hunter, your roots are showing!"

"If they were, I'd have knicked her purse," he muttered. "Come on. Amaya's next."

Together they worked their way through the next three rooms, gathering Amaya, Ray and Mick before Jesse skidded to a halt in the middle of Sara's room.

She looked up at Mick with a grin. "There you are. I was wondering..."

"I couldn't sleep," rumbled Mick, folding his arms. "I went to see if Haircut could bore me to sleep. He nearly succeeded too."

"Hey!" Ray complained, frowning over at Mick.

"Whatever," Jesse waved away the explanation. "Everyone else is in Kendra's room. There's a whole bunch of pirates on board. They're everywhere. Five on the bridge and at least ten on each deck, scattered about though. They're searching for something."

"The Worlogog," surmised Sara, looking at Rip. "Where'd you hide it?"

"You have everyone else safe in Kendra's room?" Rip checked, then, at a nod from Jesse, turned to Sara. "Somewhere they haven't looked yet, I assure you."

Sara narrowed her eyes at Rip then nodded. At a gesture from the captain, Jesse took hold of Mick and Ray and disappeared through the walls with them. Bare seconds later, Rip and Amaya went next.

In the intervening moments while they were alone, Sara turned to Leonard. "Any particular reason you went for Rip first and left me in here?"

Before Leonard could open his mouth to reply, Jesse was back, sliding an arm around each of them and taking them on the fastest whistle-stop tour of the rest of the crew's bedrooms either one would ever experience. When their feet finally touched the ground once more, he turned to her and shrugged. "Everybody needs a fall guy."

While the rest of the crew, now present, cast glances at Snart that varied from utter confusion to mild disinterest, Leonard Snart merely smirked at Rip.

Rip cleared his throat and settled his coat around him, drawing his armour close. "Ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have been both boarded and disabled without once setting eyes upon our attackers and entirely, for most of us, while we slept. Miss Wells has investigated and it appears that there is upwards of three dozen unwelcome visitors spread across the three floors of the ship and the bridge. We believe they are searching for the Worlogog fragments. All of which," Rip paused, his eyes, on their journey from face to face, alighting on Matthew Tyler's. At the tiniest of nods from the android, Rip continued. "Are safe. Our first priority, of course, must be to regain control of the ship. We could try and fight our way through, deck by deck, but life would be made much easier if we had Gideon on our side."

"For that we'd need the power back on," shrugged Ray, halfway into his suit while still in his pyjamas. "And as soon as the power comes back on they're gonna know we're out."

"Indeed they are, Doctor Palmer," nodded Rip, "which is why we need to work quickly. Jesse can take two people down to the engine room to try and restore power and, therefore, Gideon. This room, being empty has no lock on the door, so as soon as the power comes back on we can open it and start fighting our way out from there. We'll head for the bridge first..."

"Wait, if the power comes back on," Sara interrupted, "they're not only gonna know we're out, they're also gonna know where at least some of us are. Jesse can only carry two people at a time, sure, but she can do more than one trip in the time it takes Jax and Ray - who are the two I'm assuming she's taking - get the power back on. Plus there might be pirates down there - and we're just calling them pirates, Leonard - when the three of them arrive. It makes more sense to fight our way up through the ship from there. Jesse could take Ray and I first, then Jax and Leonard, Mick and Martin, and so on. She could probably get us all down there before the boys have got the power ready to go back on, then we just have to wait for the pirates to come to us."

"Yes, but," Rip countered, raising a finger, "If we're all in one place we're easier to recapture. You forget: there are Time Captains among these pirates. They have Time Master technology. All they need to do is flash one of those stun guns at us once and we'd all be down. If we're apart, we can attack on two fronts: divide their forces."

"And ours!"

"The engine room is a dead end!"

"If you send Ray and Jax alone, they'll get caught way before the rest of us do!"

"At least we'll have a chance of taking back the ship and freeing them!"

"Not if they get the power off again!"

" _Time out_!" Snart yelled, looking from one to the other. "Sara and I go with the geeks. You fight your way down to us from here as soon as the power kicks in."

"Actually, intelligent and studious people are usually called nerds," corrected Ray, smiling sheepishly. "Geeks are people who show great - although some Debbie-downers might say excessive - enthusiasm for the things they are passionate about."

Snart turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. "What's your point?"

Ray took a breath, then closed his mouth. With a half-hearted smile, he shrugged.

"Fine," growled Rip. "Jesse..."

"On it, boss," interrupted the speedster, disappearing with a fully suited Ray and Sara in tow.

"Don't get my partner killed," purred Snart in Rip's ear. A blink of an eye later, he was gone.


	77. A Time to Reveal

There were three pirates in the engine room when Jesse arrived with Ray and Sara. They never knew what hit them. By the time she got back with Jax and Leonard, Sara had all three neatly tied up and gagged with their own socks and Ray had his suit plugged in to one of the Waverider's wall panels. Leonard put out a hand to the wall to steady himself and found it landing on his girlfriend's shoulders instead. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright from the exertion of the fight, short as it had been. With a laugh as catching as wildfire, she wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled his mouth down to meet hers. The kiss was brief, but chaste didn't figure and Leonard felt his lip curl into a smirk as she spun away from him towards the door. A glance to his right showed him he wasn't the only man currently distracted by his lover before battle began.

"Put her down, Jax," he drawled. "Can't have Odie over there take all the credit, now can we?"

Embarrassment fighting euphoria, Jax and Jesse parted, all shy smiles and blushes. Leonard couldn't help a shadow of a smile. Had he ever been that young? Damn, he felt old! He didn't look it, but he felt it. He hefted the cold gun in his hands and hurried to the doorway, crouching behind the opposite side of the frame from Sara. Here at least were two things that could make him feel young again.

"Promise me you'll be careful," Jax urged Jesse, his hands around her face.

"You promise me!" Jesse grinned back. "They're gonna have a much harder time hitting me than you!"

"Oh, I'm always careful," laughed Jax. "Grey's the crazy one, honest!"

"Yeah, right!" Jesse laughed back. She kissed his hands and removed them from her cheeks. "Try not to die, okay?"

"Right back atcha," grinned Jax at the disappearing blur.

"Hey, Romeo, wanna give Ray a hand over there?" Sara called out, snapping Jax out of his daydream and back into action.

There were no signs of any other intruders. Whoever else was on this level, they were fully engaged in searching the ship. Quietly, Sara counted the seconds, then the minutes, while Jax and Ray worked. When the call came from Ray that they were ready to flip the switch, she was more than ready for the battle ahead. Eyes closed against the sudden glare of light, Sara listened to the rising hum of the engines. She knew it was only a matter of time now before the fight would begin. Jax hurried to a spot low down behind her, hidden by the bulk of one of the mechanisms he took such pride in caring for. Ray hovered in the air above Leonard, a spark of blue light almost hidden against the shining metal of the ship. In the distance, a footfall sounded on the echoing metal grill of the floor. They were coming.

XXXX

Jesse blurred back into focus by Rip's side and looked around. Mick and Amaya stood nearby, both obviously ready to fight, but nobody else. She frowned. "Where's Martin and Matthew?" 

"Providing a much needed back up plan," replied the captain, removing his pistol from its holster and hastening to the door. "And the others?"

"Engine room is secure, and Jax is working on the power problem," nodded Jesse. At a meaningful cough from the vicinity of Mick Rory, she smiled and amended her report. "Jax and Ray are working on it, I mean. Sara and Mister Snart are on the door keeping watch."

"Call him Snart or call him Leonard, kid," grunted Mick. "He hates 'Mister'. He _loves_ 'Captain Cold'!"

"Oh, I really must remember that!" Rip trilled, eyebrows flashing upwards in a way that suggested he had no intention of changing the way he addressed his rival any time soon.

"What's the plan, Cap'n?" Jesse grinned.

Rip scratched his chin in thought. "Head for the bridge. See what's going on. You head left, take down as many as you can, from here down to the rest of the team on the lower deck, and we'll head right and get the rest. Feel free to steal our thunder as much as you like."

"I don't hear any thunder," rumbled Mick.

"Actually, I do," added Amaya, tipping her head to listen. "It's coming from the ship."

Rip put his hand flat against the metal wall. She was right. In a way. Waves of low vibrations shuddered through the Waverider. Rip's brows drew down. "Shock waves. From outside. Sound may not travel in space, but the energy from an exploding time drive does. We're not the only ship under attack. We _have_ to get Gideon back and retake the Waverider. The rest of the fleet, such as it is, may depend on our survival."

"So," rumbled Mick, firing up his gun with glee, "no pressure then."

The lights came on. The door opened. Jesse vanished, her passage traceable by the series of cries and grunts, crashes and thumps made by the falling pirates. Rip led the charge in the opposite direction, Amaya and Mick at his heels. Every corner brought a fresh attack. Lasers sang through the halls and fire roared in return. So did Vixen. Pirates fell. Mick laughed. Rip swore. Amaya blazed.

And then they reached the bridge.

"Easy there, _Captain_ Hunter," smirked a hateful voice by the holotable.

"Valor," spat Rip, aiming his gun at the pirate's head. He could make the shot. He knew he could. As long as Valor didn't move. His jaw tightened as he took in the sparkling blue whipcord wrapped around the person Valor was using as a human shield. More than just a shiny toy, he thought, if it could hold a speedster.

"Admiring my new gadgets?" Valor taunted. Behind Rip, Mick growled. Valor's attention flicked to the arsonist. "Ah, we meet again, Mister Rory! And shall you becoming over to the winning side today?"

"Already on it," he rumbled back, like the quiet murmur of thunder in the distance. "You hurt her, you're toast!"

"Oh, now why would I hurt her," asked Valor as the doorway behind the trio became decidedly more crowded, "when I can hurt you instead? This might sting."

At his words, blue tendrils of light enveloped Rip, Amaya and Mick in lightning bright sheets of pain. Unconscious, muscles still spasming from the blasts, the three were dragged over to the wall and tied up.

Jon Valor laughed a strange high laugh that sent chills through Jesse's spine. Bad guys were never the sanest, but this one seemed more than a little unhinged.

"For I am a pirate king," sang the joyful Valor, handing the end of the whip holding Jesse to one of his underlings and prancing round the bridge of the Waverider. "And it is, it is a glorious thing to be a pirate king!"

"Dear me, sweetie, someone's needing to update their music collection," drawled the Time Temptress, blonde curls bobbing as she picked her way over the fallen pirates. "My, my, what a mess. When will you learn? Time Master toys are better than yours!" With a wave of her hand, a parade of ex-time captains carried in the unconscious forms of Ray, Jax, Sara and Leonard. "Seriously: one little time jump behind enemy lines, then one little flash with a stun gun and it's goodnight Vienna all round. It really couldn't be easier. Have you found it yet?"

Jesse's eyes followed Jax as he and the others were lined up by the wall opposite Rip, Mick and Amaya. Their hands and feet were already tied. The soft touch of a hand trailing fingers down her cheek brought her face back round to Georgia's. For what felt like the hundredth time she tried phasing through the rope around her.

"Oh, don't bother, my dear: it won't make the blindest bit of difference," smiled Georgia, taking back her hand. "That whip was designed to stop speedsters. So are the cuffs and shackles we're about to put on you. We'll do the feet first, I think, just in case you get any ideas when we take the whip off. Oh, and should you consider making use of your hands in that short interval, there will be guns pointed at your friends' heads. You might - just might - get the shackles off in time to save one of them, but not, I fear, all of them. So play nice. Our glorious leader will be here soon and will want to know what progress we've made hunting down the other half of a little artefact we're looking for. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"Not a thing," growled Jesse, feeling the shackles being clamped around her ankles as she spoke. "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you!"

"No?" Georgia breezed, sashaying over to the set of four unconscious legends. "Not even to save a friend?" She pulled her gun from its holster and pointed it at each head in turn. "Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. You did seem rather distracted by this one's arrival. Jefferson Jackson, engineer, one half of Firestorm, whose other half is, I see, notably absent, and someone distinctly important to you." A hand flicked up and beckoned minions out of the room. "Search the ship. The old man must be somewhere."

"Martin was ill," volunteered Jesse. "We took him home. Left him at Star Labs."

"Ah, she can be co-operative," smiled the Time Temptress, pressing her gun to Jax's head. "Well, I hope they have good shielding, because his other half will be missing their next bonding session if you don't tell me where you have hidden the Worlogog."

"Please! No!" Jesse cried out, straining against the bonds that now held her both hand and foot. "I can't tell you anything!"

"Tut, tut, my darling girl," scolded Georgia, "we can do better than that!"

"No, really: I can't. I don't know where the Worlogog is. Captain Hunter hid it himself. He said it was better if we didn't know," Jesse stopped short, aware that already, too much had been said.

Georgia, the Time Temptress, laughed. "Oh my! I will enjoy this!"

"Can I space the rest of them now?" Jon Valor enquired with a chuckle and a slight bow.

"Oh, good heavens no!" Georgia replied, beaming. "I'm sure our glorious leader will want them _all_ to see the look on Captain Rip Hunter's face when he finally meets his destiny. Especially the blonde! I want them all awake and upright when the moment comes. One guard on each arm. Make sure the thieves have nothing in their hands to pick a lock with." She tipped her head towards Leonard. "That one's already got past our locks once today. Line them up, as they are, girl in Hunter's place, Hunter in the middle. Make sure _everyone_ has a _really_ good view."

XXXX

Sara's eyes rebelled at the brightness of her surroundings as she regained consciousness. It didn't take her long to realise the peril of her predicament. Her hands and feet were bound. She had nothing she could loose them with. Pirates flanked her on either side, holding her upright by her shoulders. They were showing the same care and attention to the others, she noticed. In the garish light of the bridge, Sara glanced over at Rip. He was standing pinioned between two of the larger pirates, each one attached, limpet-like, to an arm. They looked ready to start a tug of war, with Rip as the rope. He struggled, seeing her awake, but made no headway. Sara wasn't sure _she'd_ have been able to wrest herself free of those restraints, never mind Rip, although she at least had an idea how she'd try. The wiry blonde who seemed to be in charge sneered down at the Captain, enjoying this moment far too much for Sara's liking.

"Kneel," he ordered, the pinioning minions exerting a little pressure at just the right part of the Captain's shoulders.

"Not to you!" Rip spat back, bending under the pain and pressure of his captors.

"You're right," grinned the pirate king terribly, stepping aside. "Not to me."

With a nod from her leader, one of the pirates aimed a swift kick at the back of Rip's knees, bringing him down to the floor of the bridge with a resounding thud. From across the room, Sara could see his head drop and his jaw clench, and the myriad other tiny differences that told her he was fighting pain as much as rage, and her blood began to boil. Footsteps echoed across the metal room, a fanfare of their own making. Sara's head snapped round to the newcomer, and her blood turned to ice. She cast her eyes over the self-assured form of the woman that was coming to a standstill in front of Rip, and a sickening dread filled her. The woman reached out a hand to brush back a wayward strand of hair from Rip's forehead and Sara watched him jerk backwards as if he had been stung. As if the woman's touch burned him. Nausea rose in Sara as she felt her suspicion solidify further and further. Hot tears seared a path across her cheeks. Not like this. Please, God, not like this.

"Hello, Rip," smiled the woman, standing her ground unrepentantly.

Sara watched the blood drain from Rip's face. His entire body seemed to sag, as if all the fight had gone out of him. His eyes closed and she thought, for a moment, he had passed out. She wouldn't have blamed him. She wanted to run to him. To tear down the guards that held him, and destroy the nightmare that stood before him. Now. Before he looked up. Before his eyes confirmed what his ears had told him. Before she had to watch his heart shatter into a billion pieces. Irreparable. Irrevocable. Irreplaceable.

Rip didn't even have to look up. "No," he murmured. "Not you. Anyone but you."

"Who else would tear the multiverse apart to find you?"

Sara watched as the woman lowered herself to his level, turning his face towards her. He didn't pull away this time, as she reached out to lift his face to meet hers, but Sara spotted the sparkling trail of a tear, winding its way towards his jaw. She struggled against her ropes, then stilled. She was too late. His eyes had slid up, taking in every detail of the woman's body and clothing. They drifted over her face, taking in every detail, so familiar and yet so new.

"Miranda," he breathed.

"Husband," smiled Miranda Coburn.

"How?" Rip frowned.

"Simple," his wife replied. "I just found a reality where you stayed with the Time Masters and I resigned. And thus where I died and you lived. Not all that simple actually: you did do a very thorough job of getting yourself killed avenging me in so many other timelines. Sweet really, if it wasn't so pathetic. At least this version of you seems to have some gumption."

"But..." Rip began, but got no further. A bright white light flashed from Miranda's outstretched palm and the Captain slumped forwards.

"The brig I think," mused Miranda, waving a hand at one of the guards to pick the unconscious Rip up. "He'll get out of anywhere else. Post guards though, and restrain him, just in case. It is his ship after all. And we have _so_ much to catch up on!"

XXXX

"How goes the battle, Mister Tyler?" Martin Stein whispered. He was lying flat on his back in the crawl space above Kendra's room, with Matthew Tyler next to him.

"Not well," murmured the android. The next time he spoke, his ever serious tones had been replaced by Gideon's ever cheerful ones. "I'm afraid the Captain's surmise was correct, Professor Stein. The rogue Time Captains, led by Miss Georgia Sivana, also known as the Time Temptress, led a feint against the engine room from the front, engaging Miss Lance, Mister Snart, Mister Jackson and Doctor Palmer in a fire fight, then drawing them out, at which point Miss Sivana used her wrist device to time jump into the engine room itself, behind the Legends, and render them unconscious with a Time Master stun gun. Meanwhile, Miss Wells, whilst proving highly effective in the outer corridors of the ship, was halted in her bid to quell the pirate horde single-handedly by a whip of Time Master creation designed to exert a strong temporem field around speedsters, preventing them phasing through the cord of the whip."

"Excuse me: temporem?" Stein asked, frowning at the unfamiliarity of the word.

"My apologies, Professor Stein," answered Gideon. "The word is a portmanteu-contraction of the phrase 'temporal-electro-magnetic', electromagnetic being contracted to 'EM' and switched with the last two letters of 'temporal'. Miss Wells was then held hostage in the bridge while Captain Hunter bravely fought his way through the apparent remainder of the horde, assisted by Madame Jiwe and Mister Rory. Upon reaching the bridge and seeing Miss Wells held hostage, Captain Hunter and his companions were themselves overcome and taken hostage. Miss Wells was then forced to witness the capture of the rest of the team and, upon the threatening of Mister Jackson's life, to divulge that only Captain Hunter knew the hiding place of the Worlogog fragments. In due fairness, I should point out that she successfully convinced the Time Temptress that you, Professor, were not aboard the ship, but were instead receiving treatment at Star Labs. The invading forces do not seem aware of Mister Tyler's presence on the ship either. There are, therefore, no persons currently looking for you. Following this, the crew were restrained and forced to watch Captain Hunter be first humiliated then tortured by the arrival of the single personage that has been eluding us all this time: his wife."

"I'm sorry, what?" Martin broke in, his voice rising in astonishment.

"It appears that the driving force behind the unification of the Time Pirates with the rogue Time Captains and Masters is none other that the previously deceased Miranda Coburn," continued Gideon, incongruously happy to deliver such grotesque news. "She appears to have found her way through from the dimension of another Earth, bringing with her her one time nemesis, Georgia Sivana. The two joined forces when Captain Coburn discovered the Time Masters were behind the murder of her husband and son, and have been tearing holes from one dimension to the next to find one where Captain Hunter survived in her stead. Having found our _Captain_ Hunter, they have, it seems, done their best to turn him into their _Mister_ Hunter and have currently resumed their tactic of steadily attacking his heart and mind in the brig. The rest of the crew are being detained in the smaller, short term holding cells also found on that level. Mister Jackson and Mister Rory are in one, Mister Snart and Mister Palmer are in another, and the ladies have been given a third cell all to themselves on the opposite side of the ship. This is causing Mister Jackson and Mister Snart some considerable distress, although only Mister Jackson is currently showing it."

In the silence that followed this muted account, Martin Stein turned to look at the android known as Matthew Tyler. "And from that you got ' _not well_ '?"

"Would 'well' have been a more suitable response?" Tyler asked, in his own voice once more.

"Remind you to introduce you to a thesaurus when time and circumstance next allow!" Martin sighed, removing his glasses and cleaning them on his handkerchief. It was an automatic gesture: one he used in lectures when asked a question that required thinking time. This situation definitely required that. "Gideon, can you void the ship of these intruders?"

Again, Matthew spoke with Gideon's voice. "Not quickly, or easily, Professor. They are too scattered about the ship and, should I maintain depressurisation long enough to remove, knock out, or kill our guests, I'm afraid we would lose most of our oxygen supply and heat, resulting in serious harm to the Legends and considerable difficulty to our noble Captain."

"Do I detect a note of favouritism, there, Gideon," smiled Martin. "I am sure nobility can be found in our other colleagues. Mister Jackson, certainly."

"We all have our favourites, Professor," replied Gideon. "However, I am not biased in my depiction of possible consequences. The main brig is deeper into the heart of the ship and is shielded by both the outer doors and the inner enclosure. In the event of a major hull breach, it is the safest place bar the jump ship."

Martin nodded in silence, thinking once again. Eventually, he replaced his glasses on his nose. "Very well. Can you at least clear the lower deck corridors of our enemies?"

"Without harm to our allies, Professor?" Gideon grinned. "I believe I can. Do you wish me to do this now?"

"No, no, dear lady: we cannot be premature in our actions," confided Stein, clasping his hands together in a paroxysm of plotting. "There are, after all, but we three remaining. It is essential that your presence is kept secret from the maleficent miscreants until the very last moment. We must attempt to rescue Captain Hunter first, as he appears in greatest need and they will surely hold him to ransom otherwise, then spread outward from the brig to retrieve our comrades. Do these tunnels lead to the brig at all?"

"There is a hidden doorway in the panel opposite the left wall of the inner enclosure," reported Gideon. "There are none within the enclosure, however I can override the controls to the door."

"And you can lead us there?" Martin enquired.

"I can, Professor," returned the AI, "but it would be quicker, quieter and easier if Mister Tyler allows me control of his physical systems."

"I knew you only wanted me for my body, Gideon," chuckled Matthew. He closed his eyes, barely as long as it took Martin to draw breath, then opened them. Had there been light in the crawl space, Professor Stein would have seen that they were now a deep, dark, chocolate brown. "You have control, Gideon."

XXXX

"How now, husband?" Miranda's silken voice soothed. "Have you forgot me already?"

"As if I ever could," groaned Rip, one eye swollen shut and blood dripping from his mouth. "But you are not her. You're not _my_ Miranda!"

Miranda held her arms up wide. "I am Miranda Coburn. You are Rip Hunter. Even your DNA matches that of my husband, and mine matches that of your wife. We are who we say we are. In my reality, Miranda Coburn married Rip Hunter. In yours, Rip Hunter married Miranda Coburn. It's just a hunch, but I'd say we're a match."

"My Miranda would never have abandoned our son!" Rip shot back, spitting blood out onto the floor.

"Abandoned?" Miranda sounded shocked. "I never abandoned anyone! I searched - you have no idea how I searched - every dimension for him. For both of you. Together! Never once could I find you both. Never once could I find him! In _every_ variation, he died, if indeed he ever lived, either with me by his side or with you! The best I could ever hope for was to find you, alive. And then, dear Georgia, still raw from her father's humiliating defeat, came across my path searching for this artefact, the Worlogog. An artefact so powerful, when whole, that it transcends all of time and space itself. And I thought what such an artefact might be able to accomplish. Using technology devised by her genius of a father, we traced the artefact to your dimension - there is only one version of it, unlike us - and, lo and behold, here were you, grieving my passing and chasing down time aberrations. It was destiny. Surely nothing else can explain the rare presence of the one man who holds my heart and soul in the very same dimension as the truly unique item that may, if restored to full power, be able to return to us our son?"

Rip's jaw dropped. He knew the power of the Worlogog. Only Tyler knew it better. They had discussed the item at length many times. He had never once dared dream it could raise such a blessing as that. "You're mad," he muttered. "Which of the myriad variations of our son would you return to us? Mine? Yours? They're _bound_ to be different! One raised by his father, the other his mother! If _you_ are such a sick parody of the woman who was once my beloved wife, what vile semblance of myself was _I_? What lessons did the _child_ of such parents learn? In fact, what makes you think the creature you raise up to be _our_ son will be anything _like_ the boy either one of us knows and loves? He could be a monster! A Frankensteinian creation, doomed to destroy his makers in the depths of their hubris! A demon bent on damning our very souls with the mere temptation of bliss! A bloodthirsty, undead plague, unwittingly unleashed to destroy everything in his path! I love my son. I love my wife. I would die a thousand deaths for them, trudge through the eternity of time for them, if I thought for one second it would bring them back. It won't. I have worked with puppet-masters and murderers before and I will not do so again. Whatever plans you have for me, forget them. You will not find the Worlogog. I will not help you. You are _not my Miranda_."

"Well, you certainly have my Rip's _fire_ ," beamed Miranda, eyes flashing. "And it really is intriguing, is it not, what people will do with the right... motivation."

"I highly doubt there is _anything_ you can do to motivate my heart to love you," snarled Rip.

"No? You don't think I can find _your_ levers? Pull _your_ strings?" Miranda smiled beatifically down on him. "Oh, my dearest, darling, Rip: between my version of you and my version of the Time Masters, I've had all the education in manipulation I'll ever need! Who do you think it was ordered your capture, all that long, long time ago, breaking you down piece by piece, finding out just how that precious little mind of yours works? Did you ever tell your friends how long, exactly, or could you never quite work it out? I admit, we did spend quite a bit of time prodding around in your head while your consciousness took a holiday. But then working out anything over and above the most basic of tactics was never your strongpoint, was it my darling? Even now, you lie there and wonder how all this came to be: how you happened to be here, right where we want you, devoid of power, devoid of communications, devoid of your AI - Gideon, I believe - to operate so many of your defences. And yet, my dear, the answer is simple. So simple, one of your own prisoners sat bare metres from where you lie and told it you. Treachery. Treachery from the very start. One of your inner circle is a traitor."


	78. A Time to Fight Back

Rip was curled in a ball, lying on the cold, hard floor of the Waverider's brig. It wasn't the first time he'd been in here. With any luck, it wouldn't be the last. Luck, however, seemed to have deserted him, for the time being, as all his myriad ways of removing himself from his current position relied on one tiny, almost insignificant detail. Power. The lights had gone out shortly after the dark reflection of his dead wife last took her leave of him. The soothing noise of the engines had faded into silence and the temperature of the air around him had slowly started to drop. He could feel the goose bumps on his arms but even shivering right now would be painful. Any movement would, even if it could serve any sort of purpose. Without the ship's power on, he had no way of getting Gideon to unlock the door, hacking the power feed to introduce an oscillation that would trigger lock failure, re-routing the command signals to his side of the door, or any one of so many other possibilities he had stolen, learned or invented in his many years on the job. The door locked and remained locked without power. He was only in here in the first place because, apparently, those time jump bracelets of theirs carried two! He was alone. Even his captors had, for the moment, either bored with their torment of him or under orders to increase his solitude, deserted him. For the first time in such a vast immensity of time, he was completely and utterly alone. Had it really been so long since the last time?

"Captain Hunter?"

Rip closed his eyes. It was starting again. The hallucinations. Hearing things, seeing things, that weren't there. Things that were merely tricks of his mind taking him to some magical place where he could cope with the hell around him. Things like Gideon's voice, whispering from behind him. Things like the reflection of Martin Stein growing closer in the darkened glass, a disembodied head floating eerily in the silent night of the ship. A tear leaked from his one good eye. He let it fall. What was the point in wiping it away?

"Captain Hunter!"

The voice was more insistent now, but still quiet. There was even the sound of footsteps, hurrying round to the door. Two sets of footsteps. Not that it would open, of course. No more than in his mind. Even if he got up and walked towards it, he would only rebound off the solid slab of reality in his way when he got there.

The door hissed open.

It was not real. It couldn't be real.

Arms reached under him, lifting him up, to his feet. Ah: more torture. Yes, that would explain it.

"Captain Hunter!" Gideon's voice said again, and this time he felt someone shake him. He winced.

He focussed on the dimly lit figure in front of him. "Tyler?"

"It is I, Captain, Gideon," replied Matthew Tyler's mouth. "You ordered Mister Tyler to transfer to me a secret command that, should the Legends in the engine room be disabled, I was to download myself into his systems. I did so. It became necessary for me to take command of Mister Tyler's body, with his permission of course, to lead Professor Stein down here. I must inform you, Captain, that being confined to so small yet complex a vehicle is quite intriguingly disconcerting."

"Well, Gideon, it's definitely you," sighed Rip, patting Matthew on the shoulder. He was engulfed in a rib cracking hug. "Thank you, Gideon, yes that'll do," he squeaked, groaning when the pressure decreased and he felt his bruises develop bruises.

"I'm sorry, Captain: I have wanted to do that for an exceedingly long length of time," apologised Gideon. "It really is so good to finally meet you."

"Noted," wheezed Rip. "Now I assume you did not just drop by to say hello, so what precisely is the rest of your plan?"

Matthew Tyler's body seemed to rock for a moment, then settle. When he spoke this time, it was with his own voice. "The rest of the team have been split into three groups, Captain. Two on one side of the brig, one on the other. Using Gideon and my own power source, I am able to send pulses of power, with distinct instructions to discrete areas of the ship. We used the technique to open the door to this inner chamber, for example."

"Beyond opening a few doors, literally, how does that help us?" Rip blinked, rubbing his ribs. "If the rest of the team could not rid this place of pirates, I don't see how..." Rip stopped, his gaze unfocussed, as if staring at some distant object. Or memory. "Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, that would be rather ironic!"

"Unfortunately not, Captain," replied Gideon's voice once more. "I would not be able to open more than two doors without full power restored, and Captain Coburn is currently ensconced in your office, with, as is always the case when unimpeded during a loss of power, the doors to the bridge closed. You should know, however, that the blast doors have not been activated."

"Yes, well that would make a thorough search bloody difficult," replied Rip, his lip curling at one side. "Not impossible, though: they'd just use those damn armbands to jump around them."

"The wrist devices in question do require the manipulation of a temporal field to operate, Captain," supplied Gideon. "Currently that field is being supplied via the Worlogog fragments on their ship, anchored nearby. As this is a deliberate manifestation, not a permanent feature, of the fragments, I can, when full power is restored, create an opposing dampening field that will negate their ability to use such items within it."

"Then our first priority must be to free our friends, followed by restoring full power to the ship," decided Rip. "As soon as the power comes back online, Gideon, raise the dampening field and drop those blast doors!"

"By your command, Captain," smirked Gideon.

"And stop watching twenty first century science fiction with Doctor Palmer."

"As you wish," replied Gideon, and the smirk broadened.

"Professor, do you know where Mister Jackson is?" Rip asked, limping over to the Professor. "Your transmutation powers alone will be useful in removing any bonds that ensnare our comrades."

"Indeed we do, Captain," said Professor Stein, catching the Captain by the arm when he staggered. "If you are yourself unwell, however..."

"I am well enough, Martin," murmured Rip, leaning on the old man's arm, nonetheless. "Well enough."

"In the words of my nuclear other half, Captain," began the Professor, with all due dignity. "Dude: you don't look so hot."

"I'll make it to the engine room," said Rip, allowing Martin to lead him round the corner of the walkway to the door. "Let's just get Mister Jackson and company back in play first, shall we. Gideon, when you're ready."

"Evacuating lower deck," reported Gideon. "Please stand by."

XXXX

"Finally!" Mick barked out, seeing Tyler and Stein half carry Rip through the cell doorway. "I was starting to think you two had forgot about us!"

With Tyler applying himself to the locks on their cuffs and shackles, Jax watched Stein lower Rip onto the angled base of the cell wall. "Dude, you don't look so hot!"

Ignoring a smug smile from Martin, Rip snorted a wry laugh. "Yes, thank you Mister Jackson, believe it or not, I have been informed of the fact already."

"Hey, Firestorm, light up already!" Mick growled from his corner of the cell. "Tin Man sucks at lock picking."

"My apologies, Mister Rory," chimed Gideon's voice from Tyler's mouth, making Mick's eyes go wide in alarm, "I fear neither Mister Tyler nor myself are sufficiently skilled in escapology to succeed in this endeavour."

Mick blinked, still staring at the android in shock. "Well that's gonna give me nightmares!"

A flare of light from the far end of the cell signified the fusion of Martin and Jax. Moments later Tyler and Firestorm were raising a still goggle eyed Mick Rory to his feet, rubbing his wrists and watching Tyler like a two headed dog. Rip was still leaning heavily on the wall.

"Are you sure you can do this, Captain?" Gideon's voice asked tenderly, bringing the android's body to kneel in front of her master.  
Rip looked down into the warm brown eyes, so dark and different from Tyler's own, and knew he was looking at Gideon herself in them. "I'll manage. I'll need your help, and Mister Tyler's, but I'll manage. There is one item of aid I would beg of Mister Tyler that he alone can give. I believe this is certainly a circumstance exceptional enough to justify my doing so."

Brown eyes faded to grey. "No, Captain: I cannot do that. Not even for a man such as yourself. Better you hide yourself in the secret passages of this vessel and wait for your team to do the job you trained them for than that. The Miraclo my namesake discovered holds grave dangers and he suffered much at its hands. Even after honing the drug over many years, it still had a lasting effect on him that enslaved him ever to its use. Now, only those sharing a distinct genetic anomaly in the Tyler bloodline could even hope to survive the side effects of its use. Even one dose would be dangerous to you."

"I'm willing to risk it," commanded Rip, fixing his jaw.

"I am not," replied Tyler, simply and calmly. "You may attempt to order me, Captain, but, as you have often pointed out on our voyages, inclusion in this team is voluntary. You have no authority to order me to do something against my conscience. Nor can you order Gideon to provide the serum, as she only maintains any control over this body at my invitation. This is something, she tells me, she is heartily glad of right now as she is in full agreement with me that the potential benefits do not outweigh the risks. In addition, I should point out that, as your serving medical officer, I, in this matter, actually outrank you."

"Ah," breathed Rip, his brow wrinkling as the word left him in a long, despondent sigh. "Then, Mister Tyler, I fear I must undergo the indignity of asking you to carry me. I will not hide from a battle for my own ship and yet give the order for my team to brave the fight without me. Just get me to the engine room and I will do my part there."

"Dude, I can get the engines going," offered Jax.

"We're needed elsewhere, Jefferson," interrupted Stein internally. "Locks?"

"Ah," considered Jax, tipping his head to one side as the Professor explained their plan. "Yeah, I guess that does make more sense."

"Yes, and I fear I have delayed you too long already, Mister Jackson," nodded Rip, reading the fused heroes' internal dialogue in Firestorm's face. "Take Mister Rory with you and get the others. I believe you'll find Mister Snart and Doctor Palmer next door. Professor Stein has all the details well worked out. Do not worry: Miss Wells is restrained but perfectly safe."

"What about Sara?" Mick rumbled, casting a look back at Rip.

"Ah, I'm sure she'd much rather have Mister Snart as her gallant rescuer than I, right now, Mister Rory," quipped Rip, eyebrows flashing upwards. "She too is safe, along with Madame Jiwe. They are all being held together on the opposite side of the ship. As I say: the Professor has all the details."

XXXX

"Well, look who's found his other half!" Snart drawled when the door and force field enclosing his cell opened to reveal Firestorm and Mick. Behind them, he could see Tyler half supporting, half carrying Rip way. "What's his deal?"

"They're heading for the engine room," supplied Firestorm.

"We gotta go get the girls," added Mick then, raising both hands palms open, "and the guns."

"My girl don't need a gun to be deadly," quipped Snart, his lips curling into an almost evil smile. He rubbed his wrists and raised one delicate finger. "Although she will kick my ass if I ever call her 'my girl' for any other reason than annoying Rip, so let's not tell her I said that."

"They're on the other side of the ship, and the pirates are bound to know we're up to something by now," said Firestorm, hurrying the two out of the room, past Mick. "They'll be down here before we get to them if we're not careful."

"How did you open the door without the power?" Snart asked, following the burning man along the corridor. "Can you jump start it or something?"

"Or something," replied Firestorm. "Gideon's in Tyler's body. She used his power source to 'jump start' the door. Now Tyler and Rip are going to get the power back and Gideon in full control."

"So how do we open the ladies' door?" Snart persisted. "Assuming we get there first, that is!"

"Professor's telling me Rip said he'd leave that up to you," shrugged Firestorm. "You're the expert, apparently."

Snart snarled a wordless response.

The cell the three women shared was next door to the armoury, so while the deft fingers of Leonard Snart worked on their door, Ray and Mick were at work on the other. It was a race that proved one head was still better than two when that head knew precisely what it was doing. The sound of distant footsteps on metal reached them just as the door to the cell slid aside. Amaya sighed and rolled her eyes, waiting patiently while one rescuer transmuted the bonds holding the speedster, and the other picked the locks of those containing the assassin. Only then, with their sweethearts free, did the two men turn to the one time member of the French resistance. She glared at them. Snart tipped his head and glared back.

"Lady, I only have one pair of hands," he drawled, waggling fingers at her from raised open palms. "Happy to keep them _off_ your cuffs if you'd rather."

Firestorm rolled his eyes and transmuted the bonds around Amaya. "Come on: we got a ship to take back!"

XXXX

"We're here, Captain," reported Gideon's gentle voice, easing through the waves of pain and reaching the stubborn, burning, indignant rage of Rip's barely present consciousness. Tyler's hand glowed atop the entry panel and the door slid shut behind them.

"Control panel," groaned Rip, aware that if Tyler, Gideon or whatever odd mix of the two was currently carrying him - one arm around his back, the other under his legs like a bride - tried to set him on his feet he would most likely crumple into a useless heap on the floor. "I'm going to need your support while I fix it. Just get me close enough to reach and don't drop me."

"You will always be safe in my arms, Captain."

Gideon, thought Rip. That was definitely a Gideon answer. "Thank you, Gideon, I know."

Focussing on the panel took a moment. More than that: it nearly took him a minute! Even then, some of bright blue lines he shakily removed and reattached were more than a little blurred. One by one, he re-routed the earlier re-routing. Finally, shoulders sagging in fatigue and relief, he held the last wire in his hands.

"If I may, Captain," broke in Gideon before he replaced the final conduit, "there is something I would like to do before I return to the ship."

Rip turned his head slightly, still holding the wire. "If you're about to lecture me on my medical condition, Gideon..." The cut and bruise on Rip's cheek stung with the gentle pressure of lips on it. "Oh."

"It really was fun, Captain," sighed Gideon with a smile, "finally getting to truly be part of the team."

"You'll always be part of the team, Gideon!" Rip assured her, trying, weakly, to turn his one-armed hold on the android's neck into a poor one-armed hug. "Whether you have a body or not."

"Yes, well," smiled Gideon shyly, "I might have a few ideas about that."

"I look forward to hearing them," chuckled Rip, coughing when the laugh caught his ribs. He reached up and pressed a small kiss to the android's cheek. "Until next time, Gideon."

"Until next time, Captain," grinned Gideon, and Rip watched the brown eyes fade again as the power whirred back into life around them. 

"The medical bay, if you would, Mister Tyler," groaned Rip, feeling the pain of ignored injuries swarming in his mind and threatening oblivion. "I think I have a few cuts and bruises needing attention."

"Precisely what I was about to suggest, Captain," replied Tyler's decidedly more masculine voice.

Rip frowned at an odd pang. Of all the injuries, the pain of missing his best friend suddenly seemed to outweigh them all. Yet she wasn't missing, he reminded himself: she was everywhere. She surrounded him. She surrounded them all. He looked at the android carrying him through the remarkably pirate free corridors of the ship, hearing doors open and close in the distance around them. "How difficult would it be, Mister Tyler, to create another being of your calibre?"

Tyler turned into the medical bay, the door sliding open before them and closed after them without his having to say a word. He laid a wincing Rip down on the chair and set the diagnostics systems running. "It would be a challenge for another day, Captain," he replied, frowning in thought. "Not impossible, but not feasible in the midst of battle."

XXXX

The battle had raged long before the power returned, and for a moment it almost looked like the Legends would be returning to their cells. In battle, as in chess, however, the pawns so often move first. They were winning by sheer numbers alone until the lights sang back into life and the reinforcements suddenly stopped arriving. Gideon was back. She was in control too and the invaders suddenly found their personal transportation devices utterly useless. They also found the blast doors had dropped.

All over the ship.

One section at a time, door by door, the team worked their way through the ship with Gideon's help. The lower level was easily cleared again by the Legends. Intruders on the upper level found themselves floating in the vacuum of space. The middle level, with the bridge at the front of the ship, was more of a challenge. Section by section, protecting the areas with Rip and Tyler and on the other side of the ship with the rest of the crew, Gideon locked off and forcibly evacuated the level until all that was left was the bridge.

"We can take them, Gideon," Jesse grinned, sparks coruscating around her body.

"Let's not ring the liberty bell too early there, Nermal," said Snart, shouldering the cold gun retrieved from the armoury. "We don't know how many goons are on the far side of this door. For all we know they could be lined up there ready to mow us down as soon as the door opens."

"Mister Snart is correct, Miss Wells," echoed Gideon's re-disembodied voice from above. "Mister Valor and Miss Sivana are currently trying to regain control of the ship and power from the bridge, however I have re-routed all functions away from there. Captain Coburn has ordered her remaining 'goons', as you call them, to line up across each of the four primary entrances to the bridge and shoot anything that tries to come through."

"Lucky we know another entrance then, isn't it, Gideon?" Sara grinned, looking over at Leonard and raising a brow.

"Indeed it is, Miss Lance," nodded Gideon verbally.

XXXX

"It's no use," spat Georgia, pushing herself away from the console in disgust. "Whatever your Machiavellian little husband has set in motion here, we can't get near it! Everywhere else on the ship has power, but not here! If we have no river we can hardly poison the water supply! Without power here, there's nothing we can do to remove it from the rest of the vessel."

"No matter," sighed Miranda, looking at the empty brig on the one working monitor in the office. It winked off, its point made. "We have searched the rest of the ship. Twice! It must be in here somewhere. If this universe's Rip Hunter is half as cunning as mine he'll have it hidden somewhere he can get to easily. Somewhere that, perhaps, nobody else on board knows exists. This place is perfect for such a secret cabinet."

"What about our rather reluctant prisoners?" Georgia mused, picking up artefacts here and there in the office and looking them over with a bored lack of interest. "Do we strike first or do we wait?"

"Oh, we wait," smiled Miranda, thumbing through book after book from a shelf. "They won't use the same tricks on us: Rip wants us alive. He is far too curious not to. And please: believe me when I say he's curious. I took great care to make sure of it. He wants to know what I know. About the Worlogog and _so_ many other things. Of course if we can find the thing, everything else here becomes moot, so be a dear and look harder, will you."

"He's _your_ husband," Georgia shot back, running agile fingers along the sides and back of a set of drawers. "You know his mind better."

"He's a facsimile of my husband," corrected Miranda, turning her attention to a mahogany cabinet. "The broad strokes are the same but the little details are sometimes different." Her fingers found a groove in the inlaid design on the side of the cabinet. She pressed and heard a click. "Aha! What have we here?" Miranda reached into the shadows of the secret compartment and drew out a bottle of amber liquid.

"Not the Worlogog, then," smiled Georgia, too sweetly.

"Merely something that tells me this Rip Hunter is just as good at hiding things as mine," sighed Miranda, sliding the bottle back into place and closing the cabinet. "Wherever he's got to on this rust-bucket, he's probably congratulating himself on his skills in secretion."

XXXX

Rip Hunter screamed. They were back again. The lights. The feet. The fists. The taunts. He curled into a ball, rolling onto his side to protect himself. Hands pulled at him, trying to open him up to the onslaught. Voices called to him, their words lost in the jumble of others yelling abuse. The hands grew firmer, the voices more insistent, until he felt himself tied down. They were restraining him. Why? What new torture had they devised? What old torture were they allowing him to be conscious for, perhaps? The voices called to him again, demanding that he lie still. He had no energy left to fight them. He let his body relax. Perhaps, if he just let go, unconsciousness would come to claim him. Perhaps, if he was lucky, death might follow. That, at least, would be an end to this pain.

XXXX

Matthew Tyler, wiped the sweat from his brow. It was an unnecessary affectation, programmed in to his systems to maintain the illusion of humanity. He looked at the screen displaying the scans Gideon was finally able to make of Captain Hunter, now lying unconscious on the bed, both arms and legs tied down. It wasn't clear what had triggered the episode. Perhaps the flash of the blue lights of Gideon's scanner. Perhaps the distant screams of pirates and the sound of battle. Perhaps simply the heavy toll the injuries he had endured until now were finally exacting. Unconscious patients, however, were by far easier to deal with.

Matthew cast another glance at the progress of the scan and made a note of the work to be done. There was a lot. He started prioritising.

XXXX

Sara and Snart crept nearer to the exit of the secret passage, Snart turning an ear upwards and listening with a finger on his lips. There were definitely people in the office. They sounded like they were moving around, searching the place. They were sitting ducks if those people up above decided to start checking the floor. Snart edged closer, a tiny blue light on his shoulder floating up to the metal panel overhead. They waited, hearing the footsteps move around the room until they were as far away as could be in a circular office stuffed with junk, then Snart raised a hand. Slowly, gently, he edged the panel up just a fraction. The tiny blue light floated up and, like the flotsam of an air current, away through the minuscule gap.

Together, Sara and Leonard waited.

Then all hell broke loose.

"That's our cue, Gideon!" Sara hissed over the comms.

Captain Cold threw open the panel and fired the cold gun at the first thing that moved. Blonde curls bobbed as the Time Temptress tugged at her now immobilised foot. Clambering out of the passageway, White Canary brought her foot round in an arc, hitting her nemesis full on the side of the head.

"Night, night, sweetie," she snarled.

Down in the main part of the bridge two pirates already lay unconscious and Ray was blocking shot after shot of Valor's electrified whip. The doors on either side of the office had opened and, with a predictability that disgusted Snart, the goons had gone to investigate the apparently empty corridors beyond. They had been split up by Heat Wave and Vixen on one side and Firestorm and Jesse Quick on the other. The first group was still a brawl, but Firestorm had already left the second to help the ATOM. White Canary and Captain Cold hurried down the steps to join Heat Wave and Vixen.

"Getting slow in your old age," commented Snart, icing a pirate ready to level a gun at Mick's head. "Sure it ain't time to retire?"

"You're one to talk," grinned Mick, roaring in delight at the terror in the face of his foes. "You're the one that got me this cushy number!"

Ice and fire reigned supreme in the corridors of the Waverider. It was only when the last pirate fell that the two men looked around them, finally spotting what was missing.

"Where are the ladies?" Snart frowned, looking first one way along the corridor then back, towards the bridge. 

"Last I saw they were behind us, trading blows with a few minions," grunted Mick. "Think I saw Sara run back for something."

A mental calculation crossed Snart's mind. "Or someone."

Mick caught his eye, and the two men headed back to the bridge at a run. The pirates guarding the two side entrances to the brig were now fighting off the combined forces of Firestorm, Jesse Quick and the ATOM. Jon Valor lay tied up with his own whip and oblivious to the world around him. While the battle raged, there was still no sign of Sara. The brothers in arms looked at each other and nodded, Mick headed off down the far side corridor, Leonard turning down the nearest one, still running.

XXXX

The little group had been easy to spot breaking away from the mêlée. There was no way she was letting that woman get away. She had followed, barely aware of Vixen at her back, hurrying with her down the corridor that led to the jump ship and the only safe route left off the Waverider. The first sign they were catching up with them was laser fire, ricocheting down the metal walls and scorching blackened remembrances of its passage there. She couldn't throw a knife back in return. Not yet. She had few enough knives left to waste them on a curving corridor. They would keep. There was no way into the jump ship hangar without Gideon on their side.

Without a word to each other, they slowed, watching the corner of the corridor down to the hangar doors appear round the bend. Laser fire echoed past them and they knew their caution was merited. The pirates, their leader with them, were stuck: trapped in that corridor with nowhere else to go but through that door if only they could hack it. Flattening themselves to the wall, Vixen and White Canary sidled closer.

Sara darted her head around the corner and back, narrowly avoiding the hail of laser fire that followed her. She held up five fingers then one to Amaya, who nodded. She stepped back, away from Sara, raising a hand to the totem at her throat and waited. Sara counted down from three on her fingers and the two women moved together. Silver sparkled as Sara's knives, mid flight, reflected the blue light of the spirit of a bear. Two pirates fell to the knives. One flew backwards, hitting the wall opposite the entrance to the corridor with a sickening crack. The fourth actually managed to put up a fight, at least for a little while. The fifth was sinking to the ground unconscious when Sara turned and came face to face with the last person in the isolated corridor. She was pointed a gun right at her. The gun fired. A heavy weight bore into Sara's side, knocking the air from her lungs as she collided with the wall. Sara looked down. There was no blood. No scorched burn marks. There was just Amaya, at her feet, absolutely still.

When Sara looked up, she was shaking.

She reached for a knife, then remembered they were all gone.

"My, my, we are in a pretty pickle," smiled Miranda. She was still pointing the pistol at Sara, too far distant to ever be reached by her before the gun fired. "I see what he saw in you, I really do. Sees in you, really. It's a bit of a block to my plans, but then tearing you down is really just another little way of breaking him. The more broken I make him, the easier it will be to put him back together the way my Rip was. It's amazing the technology the Sivanas came up with. Dear little Georgia back there even has a personal holographic projector that makes her resemble her sister! It never does seem fair when one sibling gets all the 'pretty' genes. Does make one rather more able to focus on other attributes, however. Like how to stop a speedster, jump through time and space without a ship, reprogram a human mind. The possibilities are endless. Well, maybe not now, but I have her technology. I don't need her. I just need a way off this ship. Gideon, dearest: be a darling and open this door, or I shall be forced to shoot another of your beloved crew. Specifically, Sara Lance. And don't think I won't enjoy it."

"You'll shoot me even if Gideon does open the door," spat back Sara.

"Now, now, that's not true: I need the outer doors open as well. I'll just keep you hostage until I'm out of here then, if your clever little AI will drop the field she's using to stop us jumping anywhere, I'll even let you borrow my bracelet to get back. Sound fair?"

"Yeah, right!" Sara scoffed, folding her arms. "'Cause that's gonna happen!"

"Come on now, Gideon," coaxed Miranda, not bothering to take her eyes off Sara. "If you are as akin to my universe's artificial consciousnesses as my sources tell me you are, you can check my biometrics and determine whether or not I am lying. If you do not open this door, I will shoot Sara Lance."

"I can indeed determine the veracity of your statement, Captain Coburn," replied Gideon, her usually sunny tones decidedly clouded over. "Given the opportunity, should you choose, you would indeed shoot and kill Miss Lance."

"Well now," smiled Miranda brightly, "I do have the opportunity. And, Gideon, if you do not open that door by the time I count to three, that is precisely what I shall _choose_ to do." Miranda levelled the gun at Sara again, laughing slightly when her rival merely set her jaw and glowered in response. "One."

Sara let her arms drop, every muscle in her preparing to charge.

"Two."

All Sara's attention zeroed in on the barrel of the laser pistol aimed at her. Dropping forwards would only increase the chance of a head shot. Left would take her into the wall of the corridor. Right was the most obvious choice. On the other hand, though: right was the most obvious choice. If it were Rip on the other end of the gun, she'd be dead no matter what way she dove. How good a shot was Miranda?

"Three!"

Sara twisted and dodged left, rebounding off the wall and stopping short at the realisation there was no second shot. Instead, there was a look of mild surprise on the face of her would-be killer. In it, Sara thought she saw a glimmer of the beauty this woman might have held, had her heart not been blackened by hatred. A frown flickered across Sara's face as she followed the sinking progress of Miranda's body to the floor: knees buckling, hitting the metal floor with a soft thud, then torso toppling forward to reveal a very old, very simple knife protruding from her back. Sara's eyes rose, taking in the breathless form of Rip, bruised, battered and bleeding, watching her through one unblackened eye. A small noise dragged her eyes to the side. Leonard. On Rip's other side, Mick came crashing down the corridor at a run. Rip turned and walked away.

Sara tried to step forward and stumbled, forgetting there was a body at her feet. She dropped to her knees and sought for a pulse in Amaya's neck. It was hopeless. Even before she touched the body, she knew it was hopeless. It had to be done, though. She had to be sure.

"Sara," murmured Leonard, reaching out and stilling her hands. When had he walked over? She should have heard him cross a distance like that. He moved her hands away and slid his under Amaya's body, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a child. Another pair of arms encircled Sara, guiding her upwards, to her feet.

"Come on, Blondie," murmured Mick, conveying her through the fallen pirates to the empty corridor. "Day ain't over yet."

By the time they reached the bridge, the worst of the shock had passed and Sara was operating on at least a little more than autopilot. She heard the voices before she saw them, warning her that battle was still raging outwith the Waverider.

"I got it! I've found the source!" Ray's voice yelled with incongruous glee.

"I believe 'we've found it', would be more apt, Doctor Palmer," chided Gideon's unmistakable voice.

"Yes! Yes, of course! Sorry, Gideon: _we've_ found it," corrected Ray, and Sara could see him now flapping hands wildly at the rest of the room and at least one person up towards the window."

"It's the Endeavour, isn't it," stated Rip's voice in weary monotone, and the way Ray turned told Sara he was the hidden form by the window.

"Yes," answered Ray, shoulder slumping. Sara could imagine the sulky face. "How'd you guess?"

"Not much of a guess," groaned Rip. Sara could see him now, one arm up on the window, peering out into the battlefield of the endless night sky. "My inner circle really isn't that big."

"What's goin' on?" Mick's voice was quiet but it carried. Sara walked in to the room with four pairs of eyes turned to her and Mick, then to the corridor expectantly. "Amaya didn't make it. Snart's taking her to Tyler."

That was when the fifth pair of eyes, Rip's eyes, finally turned, meeting them with an open mouthed frown that turned inward then turned away as softly and suddenly as day turns to night. Sara watched Martin bow his head, Jesse reach out to Jax, and Ray's perennial smile fade. Rip merely returned his gaze to the warring ships beyond.

"Gideon, contact the Endeavour. Bring them up on the monitors," ordered Rip, sounding just about as empty as the blackness beyond. Pushing himself off the window he shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way down to stand in front of the nearest monitor. A few moments later, Luke's unusually grave face appeared.

"Still alive then, brother mine," he said, but his words lacked the warmth of their usual greetings.

"The time dilation device," Rip began, without preamble. "Is it still on your ship?"

"Of course," nodded Luke.

"You need to destroy it," Rip ordered. "It is not what it appears to be."

"Why?" Luke frowned. "What is it?"

"Some kind of electromagnetic pulse generator," replied Rip, clipping his words in a way that told Sara his temper was starting to fray. "It's creating a dampening field preventing the ships systems from rebooting automatically and stopping them fighting back. We're doing what we can but shutting that thing down is imperative. All ships' systems should come back on line once it's gone."

"Wait," frowned Ray, spotting something that had itself just solidified in Sara's mind. "If his ships systems are down, how come he's receiving this, or broadcasting back to us? And if his systems aren't down, why isn't he helping us fight back?"

"Ah, Doctor Palmer," sighed Luke, letting his eyes drop in a sigh of resignation. "Yes, I'm rather afraid I can't do that."


	79. A Time to Recover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to all those true heroes who gave their lives to protect others.

Silence fell. A chill crept over the faces of the watching Legends, frozen at this latest blow. Only Rip, nodding sadly, seemed unsurprised.

"How long," he asked, his voice shaking with rage and exhaustion, "have you been working against me? Against us? From the start? Were you ever truly convinced to join our cause? Or have you merely been masquerading as my, _our_ , ally in a bid to win our trust? _My_ trust. I should have known it was you! As soon as I saw who was behind it all, I should have _known_! Did you think you could turn her into the person _you_ remember, if you just helped her get rid of me first? Or are you so bitter and twisted now that you didn't care? What did she promise you? Did she even have to promise you anything? Well, whatever it was, you can forget it: she's dead. Valor is unconscious and tied up, Sivana is half encased in a block of ice and all their little minions are dead or unconscious, either around the ship or floating out in space, so whatever you had planned to do next, you can forget that too. We will be taking down that dampening field even if we have to destroy your ship to do it, and you along with it. I'd rather not sacrifice Captain Baxter's life, if she's still alive that is, but I'm willing to do it to save the fleet. What precisely _have_ you done with her, as a matter of interest?"

"What have I done with _her_?" Luke scoffed, looking at Rip in amazement. "Michael, she's the one pointing a gun at _me_!"

XXXX

The monitor went dark. Immediately, Luke Johnson knew he had said too much. Eve Baxter sidled round into his line of vision, casting a disdainful eye over the captain and his struggles to loose himself from the bonds that tied him to his chair. He sneered back.

"Traitor," he spat, bristling. "How could you do this to them: they saved you! Twice! They saved your girlfriend! You owe them everything!"

"I owe them nothing!" Eve retorted, her face twisting in a disgust. "They destroyed _everything_ I believed in! _Everything_ I worked for! My entire _life_! The fact that they evicted some trespassers from my ship _once_ does not grant them a free pass on _everything_ they've done since! Did you really think it was just a coincidence they happened to turn up at the Vanishing Point right after me? That I was _so easy_ to capture, or that it was _so easy_ to set my ship to self-destruct? Please! That was just the bait in the trap."

XXXX

Rip blinked at the blank, unresponsive screen, his fingers drumming a tattoo against his thigh. "Gideon: hail the Endeavour!"

"I have been endeavouring to do so, Captain, if you'll forgive the inopportune pun," replied Gideon, the perpetual smile gone from her voice. "Neither the captains nor Gene are responding."

"You can communicate directly with the ship's artificial consciousness, Gideon?" Martin marvelled, looking upwards. "Astonishing!"

"Indeed I can, Professor," smiled Gideon, "usually. Something is blocking me at present. It may be that Captain Baxter has, in her time aboard the Endeavour, discovered how to isolate Gene, or switch her off."

"What _can_ you do, Gideon?" Rip wondered aloud. "Can you access their systems from this distance?"

"Not without a direct link, Captain," she replied, perhaps the inkling of a tiny frown audible in her voice. "As we used to track down the stolen fabricator that led us to the young Captain Druce."

"You did what now?" Snart frowned, walking up behind the group.

"Rich government dame stole a fabricator from a crashed timeship," explained Mick. "Haircut had to hook Gideon up to her mainframe to hack the system. Found the fabricator. Found the guy she stole it from. Rescued him. Got him back to the ship. Turned out to be mini-Druce from back in the day. His DNA triggered a virus old Druce left for us. We died. Tin Man brought us all back to life. The end."

"Yeah, and what about the middle?" Snart snarked, raising an eyebrow at his friend's much abridged story.

Rip's hand stilled. His eyes grew distant then swung up to look at Ray, the none-too-distant form of the Endeavour on the other side of the window, then back to Ray. He caught the inventor's eye and raised his brows suggestively.

"Out there? Alone?" Ray's eyes widened. Rip pulled a face and the good Doctor's shoulder's sagged. "Can't we use the jump ship? It has shields!"

"It's a bigger target," pointed out Rip. "The Endeavour's sensors would spot it immediately."

"I'm pretty sure they'd spot me," began Ray, but Rip interrupted him with another face. Ray's face sagged again. "I've never shrunk in space before! I've only even been out there in the suit twice and on both times it took almost all the suit's shrinking power to counter the opposing force of the decrease in pressure caused by the near vacuum of space!"

Rip raised a punctilious index finger. "Almost!"

Ray opened his mouth to answer, took a breath, took another, then gave in with a sigh. "I guess shrinking will increase my relative oxygen supply," he shrugged.

"Capital!" Rip exclaimed, clapping his hands together and turning back to the centre of the bridge. He wobbled slightly and grabbed hold of the nearest chair. "Now, Professor Stein, if you would accompany me back to the medical bay..."

"Surely, Captain, if your injuries are still an issue," began Martin, interrupting Rip but putting out a hand to steady him anyway, "Mister Rory would be more appropriate a chaperone."

"My injuries are not the reason for my visit, Martin," grimaced Rip, patting the Professor's arm gratefully. "It is your wisdom and counsel I require, not your strength. Moral, not physical, support, if you will."

XXXX

When Rip and Martin returned to the bridge, they found the team watching and waiting by the window. Ray and Mick walked in from the door on the opposite side, Ray with his suit on and his helmet in his hands. He nodded to Rip. Mick just glowered and walked over to Snart.

"Gideon, how goes the spring cleaning?" Rip sighed, leaning heavily on the holotable in the centre of the room.

"All pirates have been evacuated into space, Captain," she replied, her voice solemn, almost worried.

"All?" Rip checked, without looking up.

"All," confirmed Gideon. "You were very specific in your instructions, Captain."

"Thank you, Gideon," breathed Rip, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. He took a deep breath and looked up, locking on to Ray, ready and waiting in his suit. "Doctor Palmer: you have made the necessary adjustments to your suit?"

"And it's fully charged too," nodded Ray. "Wouldn't want to take any chances."

"Indeed," agreed Rip with an echoing nod. "You have the device?"

Ray nodded.

"Haircut freezes his ass off out there, you're goin' after him, English," rumbled Mick, one hand resting on the gun in its holster.

"Duly noted, Mister Rory," muttered Rip. "Well, Doctor Palmer, if you're ready, you may proceed. As soon as the device is in place, meet us at the Endeavour's air lock. Professor Stein, Mister Jackson, Miss Wells, I need you here aboard the Waverider just in case we get any more visitors while they think the ship is empty."

"Hey, come on, Rip!" Jax complained, getting his frown in only just before Jesse as Ray disappeared from the room.

Martin raised a calming hand to each of their shoulders. "The Captain has his reasons, Jefferson. If the Waverider is attacked in his absence we may be the difference between the success and failure of this entire mission. It is imperative that we remain."

Whether at his words or steadying hand, or because of something in the psychic link they shared, Jax swallowed his next remark and turned a quizzical look on his partner. Stein nodded to Rip who, after an answering nod to the Professor, turned to the trio of rogues by the window.

"You three with me," he ordered, turning on his heel to head to the jump ship. "Come on."

Rip was already flicking on switches in the jump ship when Sara, Snart and Mick caught up with him. "Doctor Palmer, how goes it?"

"Almost there," replied Ray's voice through the comms. A zing sounded through the system as he spoke. "Wow! That was a close one! I'm okay. Approaching the Endeavour now."

Behind Rip, Mick growled softly.

"Okay, I got it!" Ray's voice called cheerily. "Heading for the air lock now."

"We'll meet you there, Doctor," replied Rip, tapping a few more buttons on the panels before him. "Gideon: shut down the Endeavour and open our air lock doors, please."

"I have the Endeavour fully under my control, Captain," reported Gideon as the air lock doors slid silently open. "Sensors indicate there are twelve life signs on board, including Captains Baxter and Johnson."

"Well, we've had worse odds on that ship and survived," sighed Rip, manoeuvring the ship between the laser fire that rained down, up and sideways on them from the surrounding battle. 

"True, but Eve was on our side then!" Sara muttered, breaking a silence she hadn't realised had fallen around her. She saw Rip's head turn toward her slightly, as sharply as if she had struck him.

Rip turned his attention back to flying. "Did you bring your batons?"

Sara looked down, suddenly finding the jump ship floor so much more interesting. "Yeah and I've got my knives too."

They docked in the Endeavour's spacious landing bay, watching a still miniaturised Ray Palmer wave through the window to them while the doors above closed. There was a moment of silence as the room re-pressurised, then Gideon reported the all clear and the jump ship doors opened. A full sized Ray met them with a beaming grin.

"I believe that is twenty dollars you owe me, Mick," Ray chortled, slapping the aforementioned Mick on the back and leading the way to the door.

Close behind him, Leonard stepped up to Mick's ear. "You bet him he wouldn't get it done?"

Mick paused, inclining his head a little to his old friend. "Idiot hates losing."

"Uh-huh," smirked Snart, patting Mick's shoulder and hurrying to catch up with Sara and Ray.

"Gideon, we're ready," announced Rip, last to join his truncated team at the door. He levelled his pistol at the corridor that appeared beyond, ready for the slightest hint of movement. "Which way to the time dilation device?"

"We're not going after Luke?" Sara shot back with a frown.

"He's fine for now, the rest of the fleet are not," pointed out Rip. "We take out the device first, and any guards around it, _then_ we go after my brother."

"Foster brother," corrected Ray, Sara and Mick automatically.

XXXX

A shudder ran through the quiescent Endeavour and Eve Baxter looked up, listening. "It seems your brother and his friends have arrived. Good. If they're here they're not on the Waverider." She grabbed Luke's sandy blonde curls and yanked his head back, bending down to snarl in his ear. "It also means I might just get the pleasure of killing the traitor myself. I guess its just a question of whether you're worth more right now alive or dead. Just how close would you say you and your brother are these days? And please - before you answer - remember that I have been working with you both for months."

"Then I dare say any answer from me will be wholly pointless," spat Luke, wincing at another tug on his hair. "He could have blown us out of existence already if he wanted to. I dare say if he was pushed, though, he'd choose the fleet over little old me, and by the time you get any sort of ultimatum to him he'll already have destroyed your little Trojan horse. Your scruffy little henchmen too, no doubt!"

XXXX

Jax was pacing the bridge, watched by the remaining three members of the team. As calm as Stein might seem on the outside, Jax was aware of a swelling torrent of nerves, anxiety and guilt building up behind the placid, patient exterior. It was bubbling through their psychic connection and flooding his mind too. "Come on Grey! You gonna let us in on why Rip wants Hourman, Firestorm and Jesse Quick guarding the Waverider instead of helping out over on the Endeavour?"

"I fear I am sworn to secrecy, Jefferson," breathed the Professor, bowing his head slightly. "Of necessity, Captain Hunter was forced to include me in a secret he had meant to bear alone until all danger was passed. I cannot now, in good conscience, share with you something that he has taken so many pains to hide from everyone."

"You mean the location of the Worlogog fragments," surmised Jesse, leaning forward in her chair. "Rip told you where he hid them."

Martin inclined his head again.

"So what? Suddenly he trusts you but not us?" Jax complained, throwing out a petulant hand to the far off form of the Endeavour.

"On the contrary, Jefferson: he merely does not want to put anyone else in harm's way," countered Martin. "He could not avoid telling me: that is the only reason for my superior knowledge of this."

"So he left us alone on the Waverider to protect the one thing everyone's after, which he has hidden somewhere or in something, with three of the four of us not even knowing what it is we're protecting!" Jax pointed out. "Yeah, I can really see how that keeps us out of harm's way." He paused and looked at Stein with that odd, thoughtful look they often shared when feelings flitted to them through their psychic link. "Not three, two! Someone else here knows! Great!" He threw up his hands and turned to Matthew and Jesse. "Well? Who?"

Jesse looked at Tyler and Jax followed her gaze. The android sighed and frowned. "I believe they have a point, Professor: they have a right to know."

Stein shook his head. "The Captain's orders were very clear."

"And do you always follow your captain's orders?" Tyler enquired politely.

Jax turned back to Stein, arms folded and one eyebrow raised. With a huff of air, the professor caved. "Fine. But you're telling them."

As one, Jax and Jesse turned their eyes back to Tyler. He looked at them both with a slight smile. "What you are protecting, my friends," he began, "is me. I am the hiding place of the Worlogog."

XXXX

The guards were too easy. Barely even a challenge. They went down in a barrage of fire, ice, steel and light. The time dilation device was less so. Ray and Rip went to work on the mechanism while Sara, Snart and Mick went to town on the newly advancing pirates, come to reinforce their fallen brethren. It took a little longer, but soon they too were lying senseless on the floor. Eventually a cry of triumph sounded from Ray and a faint hum, barely audible to begin with, vanished into silence. In the dark peace of the immobilised timeship, the sounds of battle beyond redoubled.

"They're fighting back," grinned Ray. "We did it!"

"We're not done yet, Doctor Palmer," Rip reminded him, pushing himself to his feet and reaching for his gun. "Come on: the bridge is this way."

XXXX

"Feeling worried yet?" Luke asked, watching Eve try to raise her minions on the comms once more. "Don't worry: I'm sure it's just the lack of power to the entire ship that's affecting your conversation, not the likelihood that Mikey and his chums have dealt with your pitiful excuse for an invasion force."

"Our comms are powered by my ship, not yours," sneered Eve.

"Oh, so it is still my ship, then?" Luke quipped, flashing a bright smile. "Funny: I was somehow starting to get the impression I was a prisoner. Can't think why!"

The end of the gun was pressed hard against the underside of Luke's chin, forcing his head back. "You're not a prisoner, you're leverage," spat Eve, her face twisted into a cold grimace of disgust. "You're an acceptable loss. A traitor in your own right! You betrayed your vow even before _he_ did! You loved that weak, simpering, wide eyed version of her first!"

"Version?" Luke blinked, brows drawing together momentarily. "Of Miranda?"

Eve laughed. It was not a nice laugh. It was a laugh full of derision and hatred, twisted and grotesque. "He didn't tell you. Of course, he didn't get much of a chance! The 'she' Hunter was talking about? Our leader? It was Miranda Coburn. Not your Miranda Coburn, no. Miranda Coburn from another Earth, another dimension of the multiverse. She came here with her lieutenant looking for a powerful artefact: one so powerful it would help her raise the dead. An artefact so powerful, indeed, that it would give her control over all time and space. The entirety of the multiverse. With it's help she was going to return her son and husband to life, and I was going to reform the Time Masters. Not by rebuilding a puny echo from the shreds of what was once great, but by going back and putting an end to that traitor when I should have! I have cursed myself so many times for being swayed by his web of lies and sentiment! And to what end? The destruction of everything I gave my life for!"

"And what does Amelia say about this?" Luke managed, finding the presence of a firearm forcing his head as far back as possible somewhat hampering to the production of his usual charm. "Is that why you two fell out? There was I thinking it was just a lovers' tiff!"

"We were _not_ lovers!" Eve thundered. "I took an oath and, unlike you and your brother, I meant it!"

"And you're so damn jealous that we managed to break it, aren't you," grinned Luke, recognising the venom in her voice. "What did you do? Send her off to investigate something at the far end of the timeline? Maroon her on an island until it was all over? Lock her up in her own brig?"

"I think you'll find it's my brig now," snapped Eve.

Luke chuckled. "Tiny bit of relationship advice, love: I know you're new to this, but locking your partner up until they agree with you is generally frowned upon and very rarely works."

"You are not here to give me relationship advice," sneered his captor, peering down her nose at him. "You're here to be a bargaining chip and nothing more."

"Actually," said Luke, his grin broadening, "I think you'll find I'm more of a distraction, really. I'd say it's my debonair charm, but..."

Eve Baxter hit the deck. Immediately, the lights came back on.

"I'd say it's more unabashed than debonair, if I'm honest," sighed Rip, looking down at the unconscious form on the floor.

Luke shrugged, rubbing the life back into his wrists as Sara cut him free. "Whatever works, brother mine. Ah, the lovely Miss Lance: it has been so very long..." The click of the cold gun hitting Snart's shoulder interrupted Luke's speech and the captain looked up. "My, my, the infamous Mister Leonard Snart. I've heard so very much about you. It really is quite the privilege to meet you."

Luke held out his hand while Rip leant over and whispered into his ear. "Mister Snart and Miss Lance are together now and he has far less patience than either Sara or myself for your shenanigans so I'd ease up on the charm if I were you, Luke."

Luke Johnson's smile crystallised.

"Captain Luke Johnson," drawled Snart, ignoring the outstretched hand. "Always nice to meet a fan."

Luke's brittle smile didn't even crack. "We really must take tea sometime."

"Must we really," retorted Snart with a tip of his head. "Well I guess I'm good at taking things."

"Yeah, including the..." Mick muttered, but was cut off by a warning glare from Sara, Ray and Rip.

"Is Amelia alive?" Rip asked his brother, turning back to him.

Luke nodded. "And locked up in her own brig it seems!"

"Ah well: stick with what you know!" Rip quipped, glancing down at the fallen Eve.

"The ship must be within range," added Luke. "She said it was powering their comms."

Rip nodded. "Gideon: see if you can track down the Electra. She'll be cloaked somewhere within short-range communications distance."

"I'll do my best, Captain Hunter," replied Gideon, through the Endeavour's speakers. "I have restored Gene and all the Endeavour's functions. You have the bridge, Captain Johnson."

"Thank you, Gideon," replied Luke, grinning warmly this time. "Gene, how goes the battle?"

"Many ships have been destroyed, Captain Johnson," answered Gene's smooth voice. "However the timely intervention of Captain Hunter and his team has succeeded in turning the tide, as it were. Most of the pirate vessels have been destroyed in turn and, now leaderless, the remainder are starting to flee, including several that were still cloaked."

"Cowards," roared Mick at the Endeavour's window, as if the retreating pirates could hear him through it.

"I'm guessing there's one cloaked ship that hasn't left yet," snarled Leonard.

"You are correct, Mister Snart," chimed in Gideon's voice again. "I have located the vessel and transferred the co-ordinates to both Gene and the jump ship. If Doctor Palmer would be so kind as to retrieve the link module, I believe we can afford to try the same trick twice."

Luke cast a glance at his brother. "Link module."

Rip shrugged. "We hacked you."

Luke looked back to the window, his eyebrows flashing upwards. "Of course you did."

XXXX

"You okay?" Leonard murmured, setting a glass of whisky down in front of Sara. They were in one of the storage rooms, its lights low. Far off in the bridge, the rest of the team and the surviving captains were raising a glass to the fallen. "You've been quiet."

"Never really thought of myself as Little Miss Chatterbox," intoned Sara, her head resting on drawn up knees, staring at the glass on the floor before her.

"You don't have to stay with her, you know," he said softly, nodding at the closed casket beside them. "She won't mind."

"She saved my life," explained Sara, trying hard to fight the thick feeling in her voice. "I owe her."

"The only thing you owe her is to get back up and _live_ your life," said Leonard. He put a hand on hers, wrapped around her shins. "Otherwise there was no point in her saving it. Hunter will be down soon. He's taking her back to her family. Passing the totem on to her daughter."

"Alone?" Sara frowned, still staring at the glass.

"He knows them, and they know him," shrugged Leonard. "Tyler and Mick are gonna give him a hand, though."

Sara nodded. "He shouldn't have to do that alone. He's been through enough." She leant forward and picked up the glass, peering into its golden contents. Raising it to her lips, she took a sip that reduced the contents of the glass by half. Coughing a little, Sara dragged the back of her hand over her mouth. Silently watching, his eyes thoughtful, Leonard waited for her to speak again. "She hated me, you know. She hated me, and I was _not_ fond of her, and she still saved my life. She saved my life and it cost her so much."

"Thought that was part of the job description," quipped Leonard with a tip of the head, still watching her keenly. "Saving the world, one person at a time if necessary? No matter what it costs us? All part of being a hero."

"She was more than a hero," sniffed Sara, taking a sip of the whisky and feeling it burn away the tears. "She was a legend."


	80. A Time to Choose

Sara stared at the ceiling above her. Sleep was out of the question. Not after a day like today. An end like that end.

The rolling lights of her monitor tumbled over her face. She was underwater tonight, the occasional dark shadow of a fish floating sedately across the screen, but it wasn't her that would be drowning. She was sure of that. He had started the ball rolling, cleared the way, then sent Leonard in to rescue her. Her knight in shining armour on one of the few occasions she needed one. Why? Did he think Leonard wouldn't tell her? The man was the most painfully honest thief she knew, and the greatest of dissemblers, when he chose to be. Come to think of it, they both were! And then came the sequel! She wasn't sure there was enough whisky aboard the Waverider to drown that sorrow. That pain. He had endured responsibility enough before, and that had been almost enough to sink him. To have to do so again, and for so much more direct a reason, was surely enough to drag anyone down into those murky depths. And he had to be wondering now, after all she had told him, if he could try the same trick. Was there an Earth out there, somewhere deep in the multiverse, where his wife and son survived? Not some warped evil parody of his wife, but the brave, gentle, loving soul she had been to him in this reality. Could he find her? Would he find Jonas there too? Like some parallel universe paradise where the three could live happily ever after, watch their son grow up, grow old together and die in peace surrounded by their children and grandchildren. Was that what was going through his mind just now? Or was he drowning in the grief that had become so familiar to him once before? In the guilt and the self-loathing and the whisky.

Sara was at her door and raising a hand to the sensor before her thoughts caught up with her. Was she the right person for this? Surely, if he was wallowing in guilt right now, the sight, or sound, of his one-time mistress would be the last thing he wanted, or needed. Especially when said mistress is the person he chose to save by killing his wife.

Mistress.

Sara hadn't heard, or thought about, that word in a long time. He had used it once, back at the start of things, and she had teased him for it. Now, it seemed, he had been right. All along, all through the twists and turns life had thrown them, she had never been more than that: his mistress. His wife had been dead, certainly, but on the other hand his wife had been very much alive and plotting against them all for who knows how long. A different wife, from a different universe, but still his. Still the same woman, married to the same man. But not that man. No, not him. She might look and sound and scan like the woman he married, but she wasn't. Not truly. She was a pale reflection of her, the opposite of his true wife in every way, except perhaps her daring and her intellect. No, mistress was not the right word. There had been nothing sordid or underhand in their relationship. He had loved her. She had loved him. Had loved? Did love?

She swiped at the sensor and the door slid open. With unerring accuracy, her feet turned her towards the bridge, stepping quietly by force of habit. Doors opened to her touch, closing behind her with the barest sigh of air. The wide vista of the bridge, with its real window looking ever onward, broadened before her, silent and still. She turned to the stairs up to the office, but she knew before she reached them it was empty. It was as though she could feel his absence before she saw it. She padded around the room, investigating the little details anyone else would have ignored. She checked the record on the gramophone, the level of the whisky in the decanter, the stash of spare bottles. The photographs hidden away in a drawer. The last item in the holograph projector memory bank.

The monitor closest to her flicked into life, a colour image of the kitchen showing on its screen. For a moment she thought it was just that: an image, still and sterile as a painting in the Louvre. Then he moved. The image was a live feed. She muttered a whispered thanks to Gideon and turned out of the room they had so often shared, back to the room where it had all began. The door slid open almost silently, yet the sound seemed to echo in the deeper silence of the night. He was there, just as he had been in the monitor image, standing with his back to her, utterly unmoving.

"Rip." The word seemed to break the silence like a gong. How could a whisper feel so loud?

He didn't move. He didn't even flinch at the interruption. As still as he was, he seemed to grow stiller. Frozen, like a statue, in a single attitude that told her nothing of his inner thoughts. Should she leave? Or stay? If he would just turn, just look at her, she would know. She could read volumes in his eyes, in even a look. A single look. But only if he let her.

She walked softly, like a child trespassing past its bedtime, wary of reproach. One hand reached out before her, pausing inches from his back. She let it fall halfway, hesitant and wondering, processing various possibilities and responses. The hand hung in the air, trembling, until, like a branch that has been stretched too far back, she collided with him, her cheek pressing against his back, her arms around him, hands splayed on his chest.

He had been holding his breath. Waiting for her. Now, it left him in a long, shuddering, mournful sigh. He didn't take her hands. He didn't turn away from her. He didn't move. But beneath her arms and cheek and body, Sara felt every muscle in him relax.

Time drifted by, content to be ignored by the pair for now. Sara's feet grew cold on the metal floor. She didn't care. He needed her, needed her here, so here she would be. She had closed her eyes long ago, drinking in his presence. A delicate touch made her open them. Long, gentle fingers interlaced with her tiny ones, raising her wrist to his lips and pressing the softest of kisses there. The sigh left her unbidden. She knew he had heard it. Felt it. They were too close, pressed too tightly together, for him to not do so. His lips met her wrist again, travelling further up her forearm in the tiniest of increments as he turned to her. Their lips met, falling back into the well worn patterns of before, revisiting memories and times that were less hurtful, less complicated, until her knees grew weak and he swept her up, carrying her out into the darkness of the corridor and the privacy of his room.

XXXX

Sara awoke the next morning sprawled across the emptiness of the captain's bed. Her hand reached out, searching for him, only to find a cold pillow and a gap that should have been occupied. She frowned and blinked her eyes open, casting them about the room in search of him. He was seated in a chair at the opposite side of the room, legs outstretched, chin resting on one thoughtful hand, eyes fixed on her.

"Don't you dare, Rip," Sara warned sitting up and drawing the sheets around her. "Don't you dare say last night was a mistake, and don't you dare apologise!"

"I took advantage," he began, his eyes dropping to his feet.

"Like hell you did!" Sara retorted, sliding out of the bed and reaching for her discarded clothes. "Do you seriously think I wouldn't have stopped you? Couldn't have stopped you? If anyone took advantage last night, it was me."

"Hardly!" Rip murmured, his eyebrows flicking upwards at the recollection.

"Good. Then we both agree," sighed Sara, straightening her hair as best she could. "Last night happened because I wanted you and you wanted me. As simple as that. Any advantage taking was either mutual or non-existent. No regrets. No recriminations."

"But maybe a few consequences," Rip added, letting his eyes slide up to meet hers again. "Gideon says Mister Snart is waiting for you in your room. Apparently we both slept longer than usual. Can't think why! He went round there looking for you to train and Gideon had to admit you were not there. She did not tell him where you _were_ , but I think we can all assume any man with the intelligence of Leonard Snart is perfectly capable of coming to his own conclusions in that respect."

Sara's face clouded. Her eyes fell away from Rip's and came to rest on the floor. "Ah."

"I didn't mean to make this so difficult, so... complicated," breathed Rip, letting his gaze rest on the unmade bed, his brow as wrinkled as the sheets. "I thought I could just stand back and let you choose and it would all be so... so simple."

"Since when were our lives ever that," whispered Sara, watching the door as if she expected her other suitor to burst through at any moment.

"I know you're with him now," Rip admitted, eyes dropping to his feet again. "I know this can never be more than last night. Perhaps it would be better if we made a clean break of it. I'll take you both back to Star City, or Central, or wherever, and let you get on with your lives without my interference."

"What if I don't want that?" Sara's voice sharpened, narrowed eyes turning back to him.

"Then tell me what you do want and we'll do that," he answered, his voice flat and lifeless. He closed his eyes with a sigh. "Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Anything. I would do anything for you, Sara. You know that."

"Rip..."

"Go to him," he cut her off, an edge beginning to show in his own voice. "Go. He deserves an explanation."

Sara opened her mouth to reply, but the words stuck in her throat. Eyes burning, she turned away, leaving the oppressive silence of the room behind her as she headed for her own.

He was still there when she arrived. Her other lover. Waiting. And he knew. She could tell by the ice in his eyes.

Leonard watched Sara pad softly into the room, almost as if she was afraid any sound might break the silent, everlasting moment that stretched out before them, before they had to break it and acknowledge the truth of their situation. He had half expected this. From the moment he told her the truth behind her escape he knew it was a possibility. When he heard the gun fire and saw the wicked witch of the west hit the deck instead of the woman she was aiming at, and when he saw the look on Sara's face when she realised who had thrown the knife protruding terminally from Miranda's back, he knew it was a certainty. He felt like King Canute, ordering the tide to turn. He could sit on his throne and shout, he could argue the stars into darkness, but none of it would change a damn thing. He loved her. She loved him. That ought to be enough. It wasn't. It never would be. No matter how much she loved him, or he loved her, she loved Rip more. She always would. He, Leonard, might hold a part of her heart forever, but Rip Hunter held a part of her soul. And she held a part of his. Maybe, perhaps, if he hadn't died, if he hadn't been gone so long: maybe then he might have stood a chance. _Maybe_. Not now. Not any more.

He cast his eyes over her silent form, watching and waiting, wondering who was going to be the first to make a move. She closed the door behind her and picked her way over to him. He stood up to meet her.

"I know," he said, watching defiance struggle with regret in her eyes. "I understand."

"Do you?" Sara breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you really?"

Leonard nodded. "You love me, I get that. I really do. You don't want to hurt me, either. I appreciate that. But you love him too. You're _in love_ with him. Deeply. Too deeply to ever truly love me the same way. I see it every time you look at him. Every time you _think_ of him. There is a smile that lights up your face like daylight every time it happens. A smile I never see any other time. He makes you happy. Not content. Not just your ordinary, everyday, happy-with-the-state-of-play happy, like you are with me. Really happy. Happiness that bubbles up inside you until it takes you over and everyone can see it. And believe me, Sara: if I thought there was the slightest chance I could make you smile like that - could bring you that kind of happiness - there is no way in hell I would be standing here saying what I'm saying now. If I learnt anything in the lifetime of brain scrambling time hopping I've been through it's that you can't force yourself to love someone, not even if you think you should. You can't force them to love you either. But I love you. Whether or not you love me back is beside the point. I love you. I want to see that happiness on your face, no matter what it costs me." He paused and took both her hands in his. "Even if it costs me you."

"Leonard," she murmured.

He stilled her with a finger to her lips, then leant down and kissed them. Her arms slid up around his neck and his wrapped around her slim waist, pulling her close. He would have made that kiss last forever if he could, but nothing he could do would change the facts. Leonard pulled back from her, breaking the kiss, and waited patiently for her wandering eyes to find his. This he would remember. No matter what the future held. That last kiss and those blue eyes staring into his: he would hold on to that. He would remember them to his dying day. And when it came, if it came, he would close his eyes and see them once again.

"I love you," he told her. "Go. Be happy."

"Don't tell me what to feel, Leonard," scolded Sara. Her voice was shaking, she knew. Her hands too. She could feel the tremors running through her. Tremors caused by what? Anger? Fear? Pain? Love?

"Fine," Leonard purred, detaching her hands from his face and returning them to her. "Then go work it out for yourself. Take your time, Canary. Look on the bright side. Chances are this damn side effect is permanent. If things don't work out with him, you can always look me up when you two are through. I ain't exactly going anywhere fast."

XXXX

The day had passed without incident. A sombre quietude had settled on the crew. They had braved the worst, passed through the fire and come out the other side more or less alive, but the events of the previous few days had taken their toll on all of them. Work, play, research: all was left aside for the time being, and everyone was keeping a low profile. The bridge was empty. It had been empty for hours. Empty of all but one.

Sara sat cross-legged, her back to the doorframe, her chin resting pensively in her hands, the fingers of one hand covering her mouth. Her eyes were resting on the edge of the doorframe opposite, remembering a callous thief slouched there, killing time by driving her up the wall tapping his pinkie ring on the metal of the steps. She blinked the memory away and another took its place, drawing her eyes up to the clear wall her back had been slammed into the very first time she had broken through the captain's calm exterior. Even the memory of that kiss was enough to raise her pulse. Her eyes flitted to the chair he had been sitting in the second time. The kiss that had made them more than a momentary mistake. She looked away, looking over to the holotable. Memories surrounded it like ghosts. The thief leaning in to meet her. The captain pushing her away. Or trying to. The thief trying to threaten her. Trying and failing. The captain holding her gaze even with her knife at his throat. Again. The look of shock on his face the first time she kissed his cheek. The thrill of terror when she saw him lying there, unresponsive, blood leaking from his head. 

"Sara," Gideon's gentle voice broke through her reverie, making her look up.

"Yes, Gideon?" Sara sniffed, her eyes fixed on one point of the holotable.

"Captain Hunter is asking why the bridge doors are locked. What would you like me to tell him?"

Sara paused, her eyes closing. She took a deep breath and drew a hand across her eyes. "Let him in." 

She heard the doors slide open behind her. Heard the familiar steps hurry into the room and stop. She knew he could see her. She untangled her legs and stood up, her back still pressed against the doorframe.

"Miss Lance," he said, his voice quiet and calm. Emotionless.

She knew if she turned his mask would be back in place, shutting out the world. And her. "Rip."

"Do you want me to go?"

"If I had I wouldn't have told Gideon to let you in," Sara sighed, willing herself to find the courage to smile. To turn. She heard the footsteps tread closer. It was now or never. "Gideon, close the doors and keep them closed until one of us asks otherwise."

"Of course, Sara."

There was a hesitancy about his steps now that her assassin's ears could not help but hear, yet he circled round until he was facing her. He leant against the outside of the office wall opposite and looked up at her. She bit her lip, dreading picking the wrong place to start.

"What is it, Sara?" Rip asked, when it became obvious she was having trouble starting the conversation.

"Leonard and I talked," she blurted, ripping the plaster off as fast as possible. "We kissed. This time, it... it cleared up a lot of things for me."

The sight of the last dregs of light dying in his eyes was almost more than she could bear.

"I see," he stated, climbing the few steps and passing her without a second glance. He poured himself a glass of whisky, paused, then put the bottle down again. Not this time.

Sara watched the captain slump down in his chair. She shook her head, stifling a laugh, or a sob, she wasn't sure which. She dragged her hand across her eyes again and walked over to him. He averted his eyes as soon as she came near. Again she shook her head, and this time it was a small laugh that escaped her lips. She slid down onto the chair with him. Pinning him down as she had a dozen times before. At least! This time she felt every muscle in his body tense. She removed the whisky glass from his hand and placed it safely on the desk.

"Look at me, Rip," Sara entreated. "Please."

"Sara..."

She caught his chin and turned it up to hers. Eventually the green eyes opened.

"You said you'd give me whatever I needed, remember?" Sara reminded him, dropping her hand.

"I remember," he murmured hoarsely, fighting the urge to look away. There was no light in those viridian eyes.

"I need you to kiss me."

"Sara..."

"Rip."

Something flashed through his eyes then. A burning emerald spark in the darkness. Anger? Pain? Both?

"I need you to kiss me, Rip," she repeated softly.

He held her gaze, unflinching as always. A movement under her hand reminded her just how pinned down she had him. She released his arms, one at a time, moving hers to the back of his chair. The first snaked upwards, catching her neck and drawing her down, meeting her lips half way. The other arm wrapped around her back, holding her closer. Steady. Safe. She leant into the kiss, trailing soft, caressing fingers over his shoulders, chest, neck, head, letting them tangle in his hair and shirt. When they broke apart, breathless and dark eyed, he moved her away from him, a hand on each shoulder.

"How many more times do I have to kiss you goodbye, Sara?" Rip demanded, turning away from her again.

"That wasn't a kiss goodbye," she told him, her voice shaking. She cradled his face in her hands and this time the eyes came up to meet hers instantly. There was a light there again. One she had seen first a long time ago, with the final dew drop notes of Clair de Lune fading in the background.

"What?" Rip frowned, watching her so intensely he was sure his heart had forgotten to beat.

"That wasn't a kiss goodbye," Sara repeated, certain that the immensity of time itself had drawn to a halt around them. She traced a thumb over the curve of his bottom lip, letting her eyes linger on every line of his face as she raised them to meet his again. 

There was a question still hanging in the luminous green orbs.

She answered it.

"It was a kiss hello."

~Fini~

**Author's Note:**

> I am new to this site and still working it out, but all comments and kudos are much welcomed. If it is possible to reply to your comments I shall endeavour to do so before or as I post the next chapter. Feel free to ask questions or make predictions about stuff, but please feel free to point out any errors also. I try and weed them all out before posting but I do sometimes miss a few.


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